


Hodology

by Kokochan, TheBlueSpanch



Series: Of The Pack [5]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Action/Adventure, Aliens, Angst, Dragons, Fluff, Humor, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Space Ninjas, Space Pirates, Team Bonding, Team as Family, Warnings May Change, Worldbuilding, so many aliens
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 22:32:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 32
Words: 298,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19384375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kokochan/pseuds/Kokochan, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBlueSpanch/pseuds/TheBlueSpanch
Summary: “When she can't sharpen her nails on the people who offend her, at least.  Bloodthirsty woman,” Pendrash said grimly.  “I suspect that something will have to be done about her eventually, her and a great many others.  Twice, Vardok.  Twice has the Emperor sustained serious injury at the hands of the Paladins, and the High Houses have taken note.  Zarkon is not invulnerable in their eyes anymore.”Vardok hissed.  “Treason?”“Not yet.”  Pendrash glared pensively at the scarred surface of the table for a long moment.  “No, not quite yet.  They are still very wary.  He still lives, and he is still powerful, and Haggar stands ready to destroy anyone who threatens either him or herself, and the Houses do not dare make any move just yet... but they know about the bone spear, and that a Paladin can use it.”





	1. Regrouping

**Author's Note:**

> We're BAAAAACK! Sorry for the longer than usual wait, but there were Real Life events that sort of ate our lives for a little while. But we have returned with the newest installment in this crazy adventure! Enjoy!

Hodology

Chapter 1: Regrouping

Many lightyears away from the events near the Szaracan Cluster, Captain Vardok typed the last few sentences of the acceptance form with a feeling of grim relief. It was no small task to get a new ship's medic assigned to the Courier Elite. His ship and its sister ships in their small and very exclusive fleet were at the beck and call of the Empire's very highest officials, usually on the very most secret and important of missions. This meant that each and every crewman had to be highly trained, top of their class, exquisitely skilled, and above all, discreet. A single word spoken in the wrong place could get that careless speaker killed, and the rest of the ship's personnel interrogated mercilessly. Captaining such a ship was a great honor and a mighty responsibility, but it was also a vast pain in the ass at times; as master of the ship, he was the one required to request candidates for a vacant post and interview them when they showed up. Despite the cloak of secrecy, word did tend to get around if it was sufficiently grisly; the terrible fate of one of his medics certainly had, and while no penalty had come to the ship because of it, it was still making things difficult. Many people might be proud to serve on a ship that had carried the Emperor. Not so many wished to serve where his witch had killed someone so thoroughly, and might come back to do it again. Vardok was going to miss Medic Kirze. He had chattered all the time, but he had been fearless and eager in his research, and having to send his remains home in a jar had not been a pleasant experience. It had taken weeks, but he'd finally found someone both competent and brave enough to replace him, and it was with a feeling of accomplishment that he hit the “send” button on his terminal.

A glance at his chronometer told him that he had missed dinner. Not that it mattered. The cooks in the Courier's dining hall knew of old that the Courier Elite rarely kept regular hours, and there was always something keeping warm in the ovens. He rubbed at his neck, an unconscious gesture he made whenever he was feeling stressed. It was a holdover from his first, disastrous encounter with the _Osric's Quandary_ ; on bad days, he could still feel the weight of the collar they'd put on him, although the bruises had faded off long since. His fate had changed forever on that day, and he still wasn't sure if he'd benefited by it. His family approved of his elevation to this prestigious and well-paid posting, but he was starting to have his doubts about the work itself.

It wasn't having to ferry the Emperor and his witch around. That was only a small, occasional part of the job, and _everybody_ knew how dangerous they were. It was having to host the rest of the high and mighty that was starting to make him nervous. Technically, he knew, he should be shuttling around information and packages that could not be entrusted to even the high-security bands or parcel services. Nice, quiet cargoes that didn't treat him as if he were furniture or stare at him as though they were curious to see what he looked like on the inside. No, his ship carried people for the most part, and very important people indeed. Governors, both planetary and regional. Some few of Lotor's half-brothers. The Matriarchs of various influential Lineages. The heads of certain vital industries. Scientists involved in top-secret research. One or two high-ranking Ghamparva. Sometimes Pendrash would show up with a few of his fellow Generals and order Vardok to take them out to some empty, remote little spot—scenic trips, in the parlance of the Couriers—so that they could discuss vital matters in absolute privacy.

_Matters so private,_ he thought as he made his way toward the Courier's dining hall,  _that even the ship's Captain is forbidden to know of them._

Oh, recordings of everything that happened on the ship were kept, of course. It was just that Vardok wasn't allowed to see them; Pendrash usually sent someone by to collect them for study every so often. Ordinarily, that didn't upset him—having to sit around reviewing hours of nothing much happening had not been his favorite duty before he had lost his previous two ships, and affairs of state were best left to those authorized to handle them, but he was starting to get hints that something was wrong. Just a word or two overheard from his VIP passengers here and there, or the simple fact that some of those passengers were on his ship at all hinted at an uncertain future. Something was up in those turbulent circles that did the actual day-to-day running of the Empire, something that the Emperor himself might not care to notice for the time being, but might resent when it all came to a head.

His heart lifted when he saw a familiar face among the other late-night diners in the hall—Kerraz was sitting alone at the table in the back, working his way through a bowl of stew with a single-minded diligence that suggested that he'd had a difficult day as well. Seeing as how the cook made a very creditable bowl of ghrembak stew, Vardok got one for himself and slid into a chair across from his former crewman.

Kerraz nodded politely to him and murmured an equally polite greeting, outwardly calm, but there were signs of strain around the younger man's eyes that told Vardok that Kerraz had had to deal with difficult and distasteful events recently. “How fares the General?” Vardok asked delicately, spooning up a mouthful of savory stew.

“The same,” Kerraz replied quietly. “Could be better, could be worse. Things are holding stable, for the moment. No guarantees for the future.”

So, there  _was_ trouble looming on the horizon. “I've gotten the same feeling from my passengers of late.”

Kerraz lifted an eyebrow at him. “Rumors?”

Vardok shrugged. “I don't run a pleasure yacht. It's all business, and none of my business at that. They're not happy, though. For example, I took a pair of eminent personages... hmmm... a Matriarch and a Ghamparva commander on a scenic trip recently. Neither of them were happy coming or going, but they were unhappy about the same matter. Everything's been very... tense... since that trip out to Teravan.”

Kerraz humphed. “The General has been busy as well, but if you'll let me collect your ship's log, I'll bring it to his attention. The events that happened at Teravan have stirred up a number of things that need adressing, and the log might bring a few of them into better clarity.”

“Go right ahead,” Vardok said with outward calm, but inside he felt intense relief. He and Kerraz and Pendrash had agreed on “clarity” as a signal that meant that things would be explained to them shortly. Pendrash was embroiled in a number of very dangerous games right now, and caution was essential. “Will you need them immediately?”

“Finish your meal,” Kerraz replied, picking his teeth with a thumbnail. “I want seconds, anyway. It has been a long time since breakfast, and the stew is good tonight.”

“That it is,” Vardok said.

They ate in companionable silence, then made their way back to Vardok's ship. Even sitting docked with the maintenance drones poking at it, the  _Bevrok Hai_ was a lovely little thing. Much smaller than even a light cruiser but a very great deal faster, the only ships that could outrun or outmaneuver it were the Ghamparva's own, and Vardok was proud to be its captain. He welcomed Kerraz aboard and allowed the man to take copies of the ship's records, all legal, all aboveboard. As General Pendrash's personal aide, Kerraz had that privilege, and Vardok was required to respect that authority. As he watched, Kerraz tucked the precious data chips into an inside pocket and nodded in satisfaction.

“Very good, Captain,” Kerraz said for the benefit of Vardok's lieutenant, a humorless and opaque man that Vardok privately suspected of being a spy for someone or someones well above his pay grade. “That will be all. You may expect a reply within the week. _Vrepet Sa.”_

Vardok offered a small bow and salute, and returned the traditional phrase with commendable calm.

Four days later, the General himself arrived, along with a few hover-pallets of well-wrapped and unmarked items that Vardok knew better than to wonder about. These were stowed carefully in the cargo bay and the General took up residence in one of the passenger cabins, apparently to make sure that the cargo got to where it was going. The route he specified was one of the tricky ones, too, leading past one of those sections of anomalous space that had to be traversed with the hyperdrive shut down, lest bad things happen to the ship. Certain high officials used that cautious interlude for private meetings, Vardok knew, which was the true reason that the little research outpost at the other end of the trip had been built in the first place. This time it was his turn to enter the secure conference room with Kerraz and Pendrash, and it was with some satisfaction that he locked the door and ran the usual scan for surveillance devices. To his surprise, Pendrash pulled out his own scanner and set it to run, and was even more surprised when something went _pop_ between his shoulderblades.

Pendrash smiled at his confusion as Kerraz removed something small and ruined from the back of his uniform. “Thought so,” the old soldier murmured. “I'm sorry, Vardok. I've been rooting spies out of the Courier Elite for the past three weeks. You are by no means alone.”

Vardok scratched reflexively at his back and grimaced in distaste. “My lieutenant?”

Pendrash nodded. “And one of the maintenance technicians. The tech isn't a problem, he was coerced into this and is now working for me. Your lieutenant is another matter entirely. Do not be surprised if you find yourself giving one of your men a promotion soon. Take a seat, Vardok. Kerraz tells me that you smell a storm coming.”

Vardok did as he was told, pulling a chair out and settling in. “Did the ship's recordings help?”

Pendrash thumped down into the chair opposite, and nodded heavily. He was looking weary as well, and there was more gray in his fur than there had been the last time they had met. “In some areas, considerably. Lotor's little visit to Nelargo Shipyard has gained him a pair of enemies that he will come to regret in the future, I feel, and he will not last long if he falls into either Ghamparva or Lady Ghurap'Han's hands. That is a comparatively minor matter in the greater scheme of things, although losing the Crown Prince at this time would cause a great deal of trouble.”

Vardok stared at him. “What has been going on?”

Kerraz spoke up at that point, filling him in on the details of the arguable theft of no less than thirty of the deadliest fighting craft in the Empire. “Lady Inzera was not pleased, nor was the Order's Commander,” he concluded. “Even our informant was bitter about it, particularly since the Matriarch tends to take out her temper on her subordinates.”

“When she can't sharpen her nails on the people who offend her, at least. Bloodthirsty woman,” Pendrash said grimly. “I suspect that something will have to be done about her eventually, her and a great many others. Twice, Vardok. Twice has the Emperor sustained serious injury at the hands of the Paladins, and the High Houses have taken note. Zarkon is not invulnerable in their eyes anymore.”

Vardok hissed. “Treason?”

“Not yet.” Pendrash glared pensively at the scarred surface of the table for a long moment. “No, not quite yet. They are still very wary. He still lives, and he is still powerful, and Haggar stands ready to destroy anyone who threatens either him or herself, and the Houses do not dare make any move just yet... but they know about the bone spear, and that a Paladin can use it.”

Vardok barked a curse and banged his fist on the table. “None of my men talked! We were under comm silence, sir, you were there and ordered it yourself.”

“I know,” Pendrash said sourly, “but some cousin or other of House Muldok'Kraz was vacationing there, and was able to record both battles. The little fool promptly sent the recording to his Matriarch, of course, who brokered it to every other High House in the Empire. Zarkon did battle with a pair of living legends, Vardok, and lost: once against Voltron itself, and once against the black Paladin. He lived, but only because I summoned the fleets. Who is to say he will not lose again, and that time permanently? The High Houses know this, along with a number of those less High, but wealthy and influential, and very ambitious.”

“Oh, Gods,” Vardok whispered, realizing that the end of the Empire might only start with Zarkon's death. “The Princes--”

“Are a liability as well as an asset. Lotor is Crown Prince only so long as he can fight off his ambitious half-brothers and avoid his father's disapproval.” Pendrash shook his head gravely. “Vardok, as promising as that boy is, he's already failed too often. One more major setback and Zarkon will either disown or destroy him. None of the other Princes are his equal in courage, drive, or intelligence. I had hopes for some of the more recent ones, but they have fallen to the usual plots and peculations, or in duels with each other. I had high hopes for Kelezar, but after he was found to be working with the Blade of Marmora... well.”

Vardok remembered that scandal, soon eclipsed by others. “Figureheads,” he said. “That's what the other Princes will be. Gamepieces whose only value is their legitimacy. And the Royal Lineages, they're going to want a piece of that action... Pendrash, this is a civil war waiting to happen! Several civil wars! The Empire could fall apart almost immediately! Even if the Throne does pass to Lotor, he may not live long enough to sit in it!”

Kerraz nodded. “Historical precedent. Several of the descendants of Modhri the Wise had difficulty cementing their right to rule.”

“Would that he were with us now,” Pendrash said darkly. “He was a mighty negotiator, and an expert diplomat, and brought our people through the aftermath of the Sisterhood War without getting us overrun by greedy aliens. We will need someone of equal or better skill to keep the Empire's subject races from taking advantage of a fragmenting system. The way things are going, they will probably have to get in line.”

Vardok shuddered, blinked, and then realized something that astonished him. “Voltron's only a small part of this, isn't it? It's impressive and can put up a good fight, but it's a figurehead, too.”

Pendrash chuckled. “Not quite. It is, yes, a small part of a much greater force that continues to coalesce unstoppably even as we speak, but it is a key part, and one prone to strange and erratic behavior. The Paladins can do the impossible, Vardok, and as regularly as a housewife does her laundry. If they do decide to focus on taking the fight directly to Zarkon and Haggar—indeed, they have done exactly that once already!—then there is nothing that we can do to stop them.”

“Then what _can_ we do?” Vardok asked plaintively.

“Support the Emperor,” Kerraz supplied quietly. “Maintain him as best we can, and keep an eye on the Princes in the meantime.”

“And keep the High Families from... hmm... helping matters along,” Pendrash added. “I've been able to keep them focused on each other so far, seeing as only one ruler may sit upon that Throne. You have been of immeasurable help already, Vardok. Your ship is one of very good reputation, and is much-preferred by the most active plotters for their private conversations, so much so that keeping it clean of unwelcome eyes and ears has become a full-time job. Continue being competent and discreet, Vardok. It's all that we can do right now.”

Vardok humphed, rubbing at his neck again. “Will these plots be brought to the Emperor's attention?”

Pendrash sighed. “No. Not until there is real cause for alarm. Zarkon has been irritable lately, and if he decides to make an example of someone, or worse, purge the whole lot of them, that would only make things worse.”

“The Empire is too big to allow the major industries and local governments to fail,” Kerraz said. “Such a weakness would be irresistible, not just to Voltron's rebels, but to factions within the Empire itself. Whole regions could be lost within days. A cascade would be almost inevitable. It's a holding action that we're working on, yes, but Zarkon may still prevail. He's faced down and defeated all comers for ten thousand years. If he can't do it this time--”

“Then we must do what we can to hold the Empire together,” Pendrash finished. “If the worst happens, then the survival of our people and our civilization is our primary concern. Even if we have to negotiate with the Paladins themselves for the protection of our people from the vengeful multitudes. Zarkon has not treated the many peoples of the Empire kindly.”

“And the Paladins have. Including our kind.” Vardok reflected on his own experiences with that team of remarkable people. “Including myself and my men.”

He could remember very well the horrifying shock he had felt when Lotor's flagship had fired that last, hellish ion blast that had broken his own ship in half, and how a team of pirates that had included the red Paladin had come to rescue those whom the Prince had abandoned, and it had been that young man who had pulled Vardok out of the wreckage of the command deck with his own hands. He remembered sitting in one of the rescue craft, hands bound, gritting his teeth against the pain of his injuries, and watching the forward screens as the dreadful dark shape of the _Night Terror_ had come to inspect the wrecks for anyone left behind. Fear. He remembered his own fear and the fear of his men, and the shamefully deep sense of gratitude he had felt when the _Quandary's_ chief medic, a real Ophlica, had dealt with the gash in his thigh that might have cost him that leg. Even when they had questioned him—and questioned him they had, having separated out the officers for interrogation—he had not suffered at their hands. He had asked the old Simadhi cook who had brought them their meals: _why? Why were we rescued? Why do you treat us so well? We are your enemies!_ The old man had merely smiled and replied, _because we know better,_ an answer that Vardok had spent much time thinking on.

Pendrash nodded as if he could see Vardok's thoughts. “Future Historians may yet thank the Rogue Witch for helping them to see us as something other than monsters. If that is what it takes, Vardok, if the only thing that keeps the Empire from being torn apart and devoured is an agreement with the Paladins, then so be it. We will try to keep that from happening, but if it comes to a choice between the will of the Emperor or the salvation of our people, then the people come first. Empires may be rebuilt, given enough time.”

Vardok shuddered, barely able to conceive of a Throne that did not have Zarkon in it, or a universe without his Empire, and knew that most of the Galran race would feel the same. Disloyalty, they would say, and treason. Certainly sedition. On the other hand, Pendrash was right. Oh, by all the Gods, the General was right, and while his words were hard to hear, the truth in them was very plain. Vardok had not lived this long by denying harsh realities, and if his hand trembled when he lifted his fist to his breast in salute, he did not care.

“You speak truth, General. I am with you, and will serve however I can.”

Pendrash sat back with a sigh and returned his salute. “I accept your service with gratitude, Captain. For now, we must wait, and watch, and take care. I can certainly do something about that lieutenant of yours.”

“Please do,” Vardok replied sourly. “He's competent, but he makes the crew nervous. Who is he working for?”

Pendrash humphed. “At least three of the High Houses and possibly the Ghamparva as well. Mercenary fellow. I'll ask him about that later.”

Vardok rolled his eyes. “May you have the joy of him. I'll promote Pilot Hurok to that post—a good man, and a very quick thinker, and his family could use the pay raise. Can you recommend me a replacement pilot?”

Pendrash gave him a satisfied smile. “Good choice, and I can. I will set things in motion when our current errand is done.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

Shiro winced at the prickle of baby fangs on his wrist and wondered if this was what raising a lion cub was like. The Galra cub was much the same size and had pretty much the same attitude, and was certainly as fluffy, if not more so. A moment later, Ranax let out a shrill squeak—Hunk had reached out and tweaked his furry bottom, and the tiny terror let go of Shiro's wrist to seek vengeance for that outrageous attack. Shiro cast a glance at Keith, who had made a beeline for the lounge when his mother had shooed them out of the bridge; apparently, Allura had jumped them into a very dangerous part of space quite by accident, and the wily Blade needed as few distractions as possible in order to get them out safely. Personally, Shiro hadn't seen anything to worry about up by that big blue star, but Zaianne wasn't convinced. As a result, most of them had followed after Keith out of curiosity. It was rare to see the taciturn young man being visibly eager about anything other than a good sparring match, and he and the others could admit that playing with the baby wasn't a bad way to spend an afternoon. Even if the baby had a full set of fangs and a burning desire to try them out on everything. Only Lance had declined to join in, trotting off in the direction of his sewing room.

“ _Aaaaiieeeep!”_ Ranax squealed in his infant ferocity, setting his fangs firmly into Allura's boot and growling like a very small nightmare, a sound that gained in volume when she tickled his back. _“grrrgrrrrgrrrROWLF!”_

They had laid down in a circle on a blanket on the lounge floor, forming a living playpen while others looked on in amusement; Ranax's father was present, of course, along with a fair selection of the other rescuees, many of whom had never seen a Galra baby before. There were titters and whistles of laughter when the cub whirled, looking for the culprit of that sneak attack, and charged back across the circle at Pidge, who was recording the whole thing on her handcomp. She managed to jerk it out of the way before he could break it, but not before he had gotten a grip on her sleeve, snarling squeakily and kicking at the loose fabric. She raised her arm, lifting Ranax right off of the ground, startling him into confused squeaks before he lost his grip and flomped back onto the blanket. Ranax glared around as if daring anybody to laugh, and then charged at Shiro again, seemingly reasoning that the biggest enemy was the best because there was more of it to bite. Shiro raised a hand instinctively, trying to keep those evil little teeth from becoming embedded in his nose, and caught them in his hand instead. Shiro had to catch himself before he said some things that were not suitable for children of any species—that little monster had drawn blood! Worse, he refused to let go, and now hung growling determinedly from his hand a good six inches off of the floor.

It was at this point that Lance entered the room, a broad smile upon his face and holding something behind his back. “Hey, guys, having fun with Jaws there?”

Shiro gave him a wry look, trying to find a way of getting Ranax's teeth out of his hand without hurting him. “You could say that. Where have you been?”

“Lining up a pinch-hitter,” Lance replied. “Behold!”

They all stared at the thing that Lance had whipped out of hiding. It was slightly smaller than the cub and had been sewn out of what looked to be industrial-grade canvas. Other than that, they weren't too sure. It appeared to have at least five limbs, no two of which were alike, three of what might have been big floppy ears, an arguable head with an allegedly bulbous nose, and a paddle-like, squashy tail somewhat like a beaver's. It was also an unfortunate mix of colors, some of which did not occur in nature.

Keith's eyebrows lifted in mild horror. “Lance, what is that?”

“A distraction,” Lance said, lowering it down to where Ranax could see it, and gave it a squeeze.

_Honk,_ went the horrible stuffed toy.

Ranax, mesmerized by the bizarre object, dropped off of Shiro's wrist and sat there, amber eyes wide in astonishment. Lance set it down firmly in the center of the circle, causing it to  _bloop_ suspiciously. “Make room, guys, I'm gonna want in on this,” Lance said, and the others shuffled themselves to let him in. 

Ranax never noticed. He was far too busy stalking this ominous apparition. Hissing, he bounced forward and swatted at it, then bounced right back when it  _queep_ ed at him with malicious intent. Lance took hold of the tail and inched it forward:  _urp-yawk-flabt-gwirk!_

Ranax skittered back, and then fluffed up his ruff and bared all of his teeth, charging with a scream of wrath. What happened next sounded like: _“AAAAIIEEEEEP-bworf-blap-phwonk-sweeeeex-twiddle-thwap-ting-fwip-quack-wopwopwopwopwopwop-eeek!”_ and looked like a whirling ball of old sailcloth and angry fur.

“Lance, that is the coolest toy in the history of ever,” Hunk said as the wrestling match caromed off of his knee with a strident _aaaoooga!_ “Where did you find the noisemaker?”

“The auto-tailor makes them,” Lance replied over the noise. “It's in the kid's clothes file.”

Allura giggled. “It's a sort of child security system. Mothers would pin those to their little one's shirts, so that they would always know where they were. It's motion-activated, for the most part; I know that Mother used to come running whenever I'd found a way to silence mine. It usually meant that I was up to something.”

Pidge smirked. “Mom put bells on my shoelaces for the same reason. Matt made jokes about belling the brat until I filled his underwear drawer with cockleburrs. Oh, hi, Lizenne.”

There was a ripple of soft commentary around the room as the Galra witch came in, and Trenosh gulped and bowed in response to her polite nod in his direction. “I am sent to tell you that we'll be meeting up with the Fleet in the next few days or so. Zaianne had to test your improvements to the Castle's drive fairly hard, but we're in known space now.”

“That's good,” Keith said, “did the fixes hold up okay?”

“Very well indeed,” Lizenne replied, and looked down in surprise when something near her ankles made a noise like a turkey in a power dive; Ranax now had the toy's tail in his teeth and was dragging it mercilessly around in circles, venting muffled squeaks of excitement all the while. “Oh, my goodness. Lance, dear, I would have sold my elder cousins to the Samborvan Tinkers for a toy like that when I was small. What a lovely gift!”

Shiro raised his eyebrows in surprise even as Lance beamed with pride at this praise. “You didn't have something like this? Weren't you High Family?”

She rolled her eyes and vented a disgusted snort. “And my Matriarch never let me forget it. No, I was given strictly educational toys from very early on. Mother was determined to produce a prodigy of some sort, and as the girl-cub of the clutch, I wound up being saddled with those expectations. If I wanted a good wrestling match, I had to steal toys from my brothers, or escape out into the gardens to chase whatever small creatures that came to nibble on the plantings. I learned a very great many useful things that way. They just weren't the ones that my mother wanted me to learn. Hmm. Lance, have a look at Shiro's hand, if you would? Bite wounds, even small ones, need to be addressed quickly.”

Lance sat up in a hurry, frowning at the red marks on Shiro's hand. “Ooh, yeah. Gimme paw, Shiro. Wow, he nearly hit a vein! I thought that the boys were supposed to be a lot calmer than the girls.”

Lizenne chuckled, watching fondly as Ranax did his best to kick the stuffing out of his patchwork opponent. “Ranax here is a bit older than Sarell's children were. At this stage, boys can become quite aggressive, and it's a good sign of health and vigor.”

“And the girls?” Allura asked.

“Oh, they're even worse.” Lizenne gave her a wicked smile. “At this stage, the girls have learned to _plan._ They have to, in order to keep their brothers in line. Does Ranax have a sister, Trenosh?”

Trenosh gave her a slightly nervous, but nonetheless proud smile. “He does, and she is very clever. I fully expect that she'll spend some time reminding him of that. He's been much-indulged for the last few days or so, and it might have gone to his head.”

_Awwwrrrkk, s_ aid the toy as Ranax squashed it firmly to the floor, then stood over the fallen foe in a pose of triumph, squeaking proudly. He yawned at that point, blinked sleepily, and then flopped down on top of it for a nap.  _Urk,_ it protested, but the cub was already asleep.

“I'm sure that she will set him to rights,” Lizenne said mildly, “although she might try to steal his wonderful toy. Lance, do you think you could make up a few more?”

Lance passed a hand over Shiro's injury, his brow furrowed in concentration; there was a puff of cold air and the bruising and punctures vanished. “Sure, they're easy. I could have Marco run up a whole crate of them in no time flat.”

“True riches,” Lizenne murmured, gazing fondly at the snoring cub. “We'll be picking up Nasty again once we've met up with the _Quandary,_ by the way. I expect that he'll be a bit miffed at us for having adventures without him.”

“We don't try to have them, they happen to us!” Lance protested indignantly. “We can't go for five minutes sometimes without something trying to kill us.”

“Yeah,” Hunk grumped. “If outer space is supposed to be, like, a trillion lightyear's worth of boring, how come we aren't seeing any of it?”

Shiro smiled, rubbing at his remarkably undamaged hand. “Maybe we're looking in the wrong places. What are you up to today, Lizenne?”

“I was about to head back over to the _Chimera,”_ she replied, flicking a hand at the big blue-green ship visible through the lounge's main window. “I want a look at that yulpadi, and there are a number of berry thickets that need picking before all the fruit goes bad. Would any of you like to come along?”

Hunk brightened up immediately. “Ooh, me! Me!” he said, scrambling to his feet. “Maybe you can show me what goes into that stew, okay? And I need to know if any of those berries go toxic when cooked, or frozen, or mixed with stuff, and vice versa!”

Shiro reflected that a little sunlight and fresh air would do him good. “Sounds like fun to me, too. Guys?”

“Just for a little while,” Allura said, the thought of a quick dip in the marsh hanging tantalizingly in her mind, “we shouldn't be away from the Castle for too long until we're among friends, but it sounds lovely.”

“I'm in,” Keith said.

“Me, too,” Lance added.

Pidge frowned, considering her own projects, but nodded. “If those little square blue berries are ready, so am I.”

“Let's go and find out,” Lizenne said, and led them out of the lounge.

The room was quiet for a moment, and then Trenosh let out a long sigh and went to retrieve his child. He knew that the toy had been accepted by the death-grip that Ranax had on it, and tried to ignore the subdued  _nix-rattle-tood-p'tang_ it made while he got the sleeping cub settled in his arms. His nearest neighbor, a lanky, pink-scaled, and six-armed Geranthan, flittered her white-and-golden ear-fans in a gesture of mild amusement.

“Not what you expected them to be, good sir?” she asked.

“No,” Trenosh murmured, holding his cub close. “No, they are not, and I am glad of it. I did not expect them to be so young, or so kind. I did not expect them at all.”

The Geranthan glinted her five faceted blue eyes at him. “Not all surprises are bad ones. I myself did not know, and now I am most gratefully informed. Will you inform your own kin thus?”

“How can I not?” Trenosh whispered, eyes distant, considering the near future and what to do with it. “I owe them that much, and I do not ignore my debts. Arcobi is not a rich world, and we have seen the Empire's indifference to its backwater colonies before. Attacks by Gantarash are not uncommon, and the fleets in charge of seeing to our safety are often reluctant to do their duty by us. There are those who will hear me, and approve of what I say.”

He wasn't alone, the others reassured him. The universe would be told.

“ _Herpaderp!”_ Nasty snapped, waving a pair of accusing fingers at them. “What have I told you about running off and having adventures without me? You lot need adult supervision, so you do, and I need a cut of whatever ancient treasures you might find lying around. Come on, you owe me! That trot through the Center was fun, but it didn't net me so much as a brass ring.”

Shiro didn't quite know what to make of this odd combination of responsibility and open greed, but the others were well used to it.

“It wasn't really all that ancient,” Keith retorted.

“It wasn't our idea,” Allura added.

“There wasn't much to see,” Hunk said.

“There wasn't any treasure,” Lance told him.

“Well, except for some of the plant samples that Lizenne picked up, and good luck getting them away from her,” Pidge shrugged, and then gave Nasty a wicked grin. “You don't have a real good record of managing that, anyway.”

Nasty steamed, but couldn't refute it, and sat down on his bag with a surly thump.

The Castle and the  _Chimera_ had caught up with the  _Osric's Quandary_ in an odd little solar system known locally as Grashnur's Cloud; the tiny sun was only one step up from being a brown dwarf and had never really gotten around to forming up some planets. Mostly, its orbits were taken up with one vast shroud of dust—a sort of miniature nebula, with a rock or two floating around in it to give it something like respectability. It might have failed to produce life of its own, but it wasn't unpopulated; the largest of its orbiting rocks was a popular dark port, and the dust clouds served as an admirable hiding place for ships of a surreptitious nature. Yantilee had answered their hail with a certain amount of relief, and had assured them that all was reasonably well. Bericonde was still free, as were the other liberated worlds, and there was talk of liberating another soon. Kolivan and his men were busy elsewhere at the moment, helping certain resistance groups with a bit of constructive sabotage, but would be back in a little time.  _In the meantime,_ Yantilee had told them,  _I've got a very noisy Unilu who has been threatening to sue you for breach of contract for the past week and is currently packing his bags as fast as he can. I think he missed you._

Missed them he might have, but he was doing his best not to show it, and was giving them all his very best narrow-eyed glare. “You still owe me an explanation,” he growled peevishly. “You were only supposed to have been gone for a day or two—visiting one of the biggest secrets in the universe, I might add—and then you come back late with a load of refugees from planets scattered all over the galaxy, and a few from beyond that! I _know_ you guys, you can't just be late, it's always epically tardy or nothing. Spill! I want every detail, and right now!”

Lance and Pidge glanced at each other, grinned evilly, and asked in unison, “What's it worth to you?”

Nasty's smile was no less evil than their own. “Ahhh, now we're talking. I've got half a dead nokki beetle that might be worth the trouble of listening.”

Pidge sneered as only a Human could. “No bugs. Not even partial bugs. Your knife collection or nothing.”

Nasty wore his knives like supermodels wore their makeup. “Crazy talk! Those Mystics must have fried your brains. You get two-thirds of a stale cookie and some pocket lint.”

Pidge adopted a superior expression and flicked a hand in an elegant gesture of dismissal that she had to have picked up from Zaianne. “Twenty percent from your last three heists and drilling rights on your belly-button.”

“Two wind-up toys and the right to keep your left ear!” Nasty shot back.

“Seven Norvoskone Gems of Heaven and a signed copy of Puessag Dom'Knockneese's _Galactic Encyclopedia of Unusual Footwear!”_ Pidge retorted, nose-to-nose with him.

“A seasonal assortment of toenail clippings and the epithet of your choice!”

“A feather from each of the Seventeen Seraphs of Srannol and a fruit smoothie!”

“Last year's invitation to the Hapboygan National All-Comers Anthem-Belching Competition!”

“A preserved soap bubble from the Eternal Bath of Yupyip Gamma!”

“A hardcopy script of a political campaign speech and six and a half bags of Gantar crap!”

Pidge's mind up and went on strike at the mere suggestion of two such equally horrible things, and she glanced around in sudden panic. To her intense relief, Lance was holding up a hand with a vindictive smile on his face. Gratefully, she slapped her palm into his and let him take over, which he did with barely a pause in the flow.

“A fresh-baked, extra-cheese, deep-dish pizza from Earth and a pitcher of hard apple cider!” Lance declared, making everyone but Allura whimper in sudden longing.

Nasty had no idea what those were, and took care not to show it. “A bogus copy of Saint Yossi's Scroll of Perfect Truth and a swift kick up the pants!”

“Two weeks of dishwashing duty and a promise to stay out of the cookie jar!” Lance demanded.

Nasty wasn't about to put up with either suggestion. “The continued functionality of your sewing array!”

Lance glared daggers at him. “Both of your knees, still attached and intact.”

Shiro watched them going back and forth, blinked in confusion when Lance tagged Pidge back in again, and tapped Keith on the shoulder. “Do they do this often?”

Keith smirked. “Tag-team haggling. All part of Nasty's curriculum, and Lance and Pidge are pretty good at it. He says that real-world sessions are usually one-on-one, but they've got tournaments back home with teams of up to ten people.”

“No kidding?” Shiro asked.

Allura smiled. “Well, he _is_ an Unilu, so we can't be entirely sure. He says that extra points are awarded if both teams can remember what the original goal of the session was in the first place.”

Shiro stared at the trio, who were shouting and gesticulating wildly now, and mused that global trade debates on that planet must be Olympic-grade snarkfests. Even with only three people, this one was pretty good. As he watched, Pidge stumbled, tagged Lance in with a smooth sweep of one arm, stood there thinking hard while he traded absurd offers and thinly-veiled death threats with the four-armed pirate, and joined right back in when his hand slapped into hers. The wrangle might have continued for the rest of the afternoon, except that something behind him went _“Aaaaiieeeep!”,_ and a furry purple blur zipped past at knee height. Nasty's counter-offer ended in a surprised yelp as a set of tiny fangs latched onto his left leg and held on tight, growling ferociously.

Lance laughed. “My final offer, Nasty—babysitting duty.”

“ _Babysitting?”_ Nasty sputtered, staring down in horror and confusion at the angry ball of purple fur that was trying to savage him. “What the _clorch_ is that? A baby Gantar?”

Ranax let go of his leg and gave him an offended look.

“Are you kidding? That's a baby Galra, and he's a lucky little monster, too.” Lance reached down and lifted Ranax into his arms. “If we'd gotten there ten seconds later, he would have been a snack.”

Nasty stared at Ranax as Lance buried his face in the baby's belly fur and blew through his lips with a  _frabbbt_ noise that made Ranax burst into loud squeals of mirth and grab at Lance's hair. “You know, I've never actually seen one of those. You mean that they don't pop out from under damp rocks, fully-grown, armed, and armored?”

Hunk snickered. “I thought that was you guys. Nope, they've got a cute and fuzzy stage. I keep trying to picture Sendak when he was a baby, and failing. Now, that guy was a perfect candidate for your damp-rock theory. Hey, Vennex! Lose something?”

Vennex had come trotting in, a notescreen in one hand and the toy in the other, and his worried expression lightened when he saw Ranax cuddled up in Lance's arms. “Sorry, we heard yelling, and he was off like a shot. I'm going to have to attach a tracking device to that little brat somehow. Or this thing. You forgot this, Ranax.”

He waggled the toy, which squawked like a startled duck. Ranax squawked in an uncanny echo and kicked off of Lance's chest, tackling the toy with such force that he nearly knocked Vennex over. The noteboard went flying and was fielded expertly by Allura, who frowned curiously at the rows of characters. “What's this?”

“Zaianne asked me to get names and addresses from the people you rescued,” Vennex said a little breathlessly over the honks and yodels of Ranax's toy. “To help get them home, kind of thing. Modhri told me to take the list to you when I'd gotten everybody, so you could pass it on to the Ghost Fleet... um. Did I miss one? I don't remember an Unilu.”

“He's supposed to be here,” Keith said calmly. “Nasty's our Villainy teacher, but he decided to take a break for a few days because visiting the Hoshinthra wasn't in his contract.”

Vennex gave him a perplexed look, juggling the active baby. “Villainy? You're all heroes.”

“That's right!” Nasty declared in an acid tone that made Pidge giggle. “And take it from me, pal, heroes are _dumb._ They've got this chronic case of honor and justice that gets them into all sorts of stupid, life-threatening situations, their own crippling honesty makes them take the words of others at face value—can you believe that they actually expect an enemy to stick to a deal half the time? They don't even ask to be paid for their work! It's disgraceful! And—get this, if you can do it without bursting into tears of despair—they'll even risk their own lives for the sake of others, even if it means certain doom! That big guy standing there looking noble, he's been dead once already if you can believe it, and what do the others do? They go ahead and pick the pockets of Death Herself to bring him back! Literally _and_ figuratively, and they treat it like it was no big deal! _All_ of these crazy people can do things that make theoretical physicists stagger off to get very drunk, and do they demand recognition? Do they at least hang around for the applause? They don't! They come right back to this antique pile of tin-plated metaphysics, eat a huge dinner, and fall asleep! I'm doing my best to corrupt them a little, but it's an uphill battle all the way, let me tell you. Varda here's the fastest learner. I can almost get her to taunt a captured enemy, and she's pretty good at dirty tricks. The rest of them can just about cheat at cards, but only if you play for cookies. Hopeless.”

Vennex cast a sidelong look at Shiro. “From the Ghost Fleet, right? I think that I've seen him on a wanted poster. He burned some really rude insults into the outer hull of a heavy cruiser, and the captain wants his head on a spike.”

Shiro snorted a laugh. “It's a long story.”

“That's me!” Nasty said proudly. “How much were they offering as a reward?”

Vennex frowned thoughtfully, juggling Ranax in his arms. “Um... seven hundred thousand gac, dead or alive. Preferably alive. I heard that Captain Corash had... um... _plans,_ and wants to do the execution himself.”

Nasty's sly face split into an appreciative grin. “Classic. I'm going to have so much fun disappointing him. Maybe I'll send him a little surprise in the mail one day, just to keep him focused. Maybe one of those little explosives, Varda?”

“Glitter bomb,” Pidge said firmly. “Hot pink and orange. It can take months to get rid of it all, and he'll be twinkly the whole time.”

Nasty cackled. “I like the way you think, girl. So who's this guy, and where did you dig him up? You aren't collecting uncles again, are you?”

“More of a cousin, actually,” Allura replied, scrolling through the list of names. “Vennex here is one of Modhri's adopted nephews. We got him from Shussshorim.”

Nasty's eyes nearly bugged out of their sockets. “What? You got a Galra away from the _Night Terror?_ _Nobody_ gets a Galra away from the _Night Terror!_ How in the name of the Ghluphrix of Narilum-Pashvi did you get a Galra away from that crazy lady?”

“The Mystics told her to hand him over,” Hunk said casually, “her guys were a little upset about missing dinner, but it was kind of important. We picked up the others from the Gantarash--”

“ _What?”_ Nasty squawked, rather like Ranax's toy. “I was just kidding about Gantarash crap!”

“I'm not. We had to wade through a lot of it, and the Gantars that made it. Anyway, that was after Coran summoned Doodlebug the big red space monster--”

“ _Space monster?”_

“Well, yeah, we were being attacked by Lotor, and he had a bunch of Ghamparva fighters--”

“Ghamparva?”

“About thirty of them. Those are tough ships. And that was after we got stuck in a space anomaly full of other space anomalies--”

“Hunk...” Nasty moaned.

“There were some pretty weird things in there, but the magic black hole was really bad--”

“ _Hunk...”_

“Lizenne says that if we'd hit that, we might have never existed. Hey, if ordinary black holes come out the other side as white holes, then would a magic black hole do the same? That'd be awesome, like a huge, huge source of pure aetheric energy, and it would probably have some seriously weird effects on anything around it. Oooh! Hey, maybe that's how things like Weblums and Balmeras and Doodlebug got started! You'd need some pretty heavy-duty aetheric conditions to generate life-forms that don't need planets, or are planets, or eat planets, or--”

“ _All right, all right, all right!”_ Nasty howled, waving his hands in the air. “I'll babysit the kid, already, but I've just gotta know.”

Pidge tweaked his ear. “So you can sell the story to the tabloids?”

He smacked her hand lightly away and gave her an offended look. “Of course. Pirate, right? I'm supposed to be unprincipled, and the Galra don't take the gossip rags seriously. It's a great way to get the word out and make a few gac on the side.”

“Freedom fighter, Nasty,” Keith said. “You're one of the good guys now.”

“Bah! Define 'good',” Nasty scoffed haughtily, and picked up his bag. “I'm still an Unilu, and we have standards. Let me get this stuff put away, and then I want every detail. And maybe a game of cards. Is Tilla around? Playing with her has ruined me, you know. Playing at Dix-Par against only normal cardsharps is too easy now.”

Shiro laughed. “And you're complaining about that?”

Nasty sniffed. “I like a challenge, and I haven't been getting any back on the  _Quandary._ I'm also really craving Hunk's cookies, damn it. See you in the lounge in ten.”

Shiro smiled. “We'll bring the dragon.”

“And the cookies?”

Lance rolled his eyes. “Tilla's got all the cookies.”


	2. In The Cards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 4th of July!!! Everyone have fun, but also be safe!

Chapter 2: In The Cards

“I'm sorry,” Trenosh said, watching the scene before him with worried eyes. “Should I take him back to our room?”

Shiro leaned back against the couch cushions with an indulgent smile while the others tried to recover from the latest fit of hysterical laughter. “No, it's all right. I could watch that all day, actually. She won't bite him.”

Tilla made a sort of, “don't be too sure about that” noise, but didn't look up from what was going on around her forepaws. Right from the start, Ranax had been determined to conquer the Castle and everyone aboard it, and had gone about that task by ferociously attacking every leg that he could find. So far, the little monster thought that he was ahead of the game; he'd bitten all of his rescuers, each and every one of his fellow rescuees, and had gotten a wonderful noisy stuffed toy to kick around when he got bored of chewing on his father. His only failure so far had been the mice, who had not only been too fast for him, but the big yellow one had bitten him on the nose. He had only barely uncrossed his eyes from the unaccustomed pain when all four of them had attacked at once, sending him squealing away to hide under the couch, and he had been cautious around them ever since. The dragons, on the other hand, had spent most of the time since the Gantarash attack sleeping or exercising in the  _Chimera's_ envirodeck, which had spared the nerves of some of the more timid passengers, and the sight of Tilla's long, muscular, scaly legs had awed Ranax with their scope and size.  _Challenge accepted,_ the expression on his little face had said, and he had been attempting to subdue the mighty dragon for the past half-hour. Right now, he was alternating between chewing on her knuckles and bashing at her elbows with his toy, and it was very difficult to concentrate on one's cards when something at ankle level was going either  _grate-grate-grate_ or  _wharble-whoop-percolate-obba-honk-tood._

Trenosh shook his head in grave disapproval. “She might not, but his sister certainly will. Ranax is the bold one among his clutch and needs frequent disciplining. My Lady Tilla, do not hesitate to remind him of his manners if you feel the need to do so. Merely refrain from damaging him, if you would.”

Tilla bobbed her head graciously at this polite request and returned her gaze to the little monster that was doing his best to chew through her left foreclaw. She lowered her head and snorted, blowing his fluff every which way, and then bared her teeth. They were very big, very sharp teeth, and there were an awful lot of them. Ranax could, in fact, see his reflection in those enormous fangs. He squealed in terror and beat a hasty retreat to the safe spot behind his father's legs.

Trenosh smiled, feeling his son getting a good grip on his ankle. “Very well done, and thank you.”

Tilla made a polite noise in return and nudged over the stand that held her cards. Nasty peered at them and nodded in satisfaction before laying down his own hand. “Wandering Wizard. Maybe we ought to keep these two around, folks, she hasn't had a hand that low since I first met her. I've got a Universal Equalizer.”

“Now, now, we mustn't keep them from their family,” Allura said, waving her cards at him. “Coran tells me that you were able to contact them, Trenosh.”

Trenosh's face lit up with a relieved smile. “I was, and they do want us to come home as soon as possible. Grandfather in particular wants to meet all of you, and to thank you personally. He... he has no family, other than what he made for himself, and every one of us is precious to him.”

Lance raised an eyebrow. “Even if your rescuers are on the Empire's Most Wanted List?”

“He does not care. Grandfather does not approve of the Emperor, which is why we live on a remote colony world.” Trenosh frowned and tapped his cards on the table. “He has never actually come out and said it, but I suspect...” He transferred his gaze to Keith, “After seeing your mother in action, young man, I suspect that he may be a retired Blade.”

Pidge's eyebrows rose. “I didn't know that they could retire.”

Trenosh shrugged. “The loss of his right leg above the knee and most of his right arm might have had something to do with it. I am told that Grandmother spent much of her time keeping him from getting into situations that would have cost him even more of himself.”

Hunk winced. “Yeah, sounds like them. They keep going until they drop. Great bunch of guys, though. Also, I've been meaning to ask something.”

“Yes?” Trenosh said.

“Allura told us earlier that your folks run a supermarket. What sort of stuff do you guys carry?”

Trenosh smiled broadly, happy to be on familiar ground. “Oh, all sorts of things. Arcobi is very remote from the Core Worlds, but we try to keep a range of flavors from home in stock, as well as more local products. We're not too far from two different trade hubs, which allows us to stock goods from all over. Fresh, frozen, dried, preserved, and stasis-packed, and we offer household goods in the form of simple hardware, kitchenware, small appliances, and repair kits. My brothers are thinking about expanding into off-the-rack clothing and entertainment items, or perhaps specialist tools and hobbies and crafts, but we're holding off on that for now. Ranax and his sibs will be expected to help in the family business, and they need to be a little older first. Who knows? My uncles might even give you a discount for helping us.”

Nasty humphed. “Pass. If you guys don't carry temmin okk, I'm not interested.”

Trenosh laid his cards down, showing a well-played Quartermaster's Foresight. “We carry that, along with spurnz, loshalp, pickled gropp, preserved shank of wuskor, and a number of other things. Not ceremonial-grade temmin okk, that's too expensive, but certainly festival-grade. Kippa cracklings, too.”

Nasty stared at him owlishly, then got a grip on Hunk's sleeve. “Hunk? You. Me. Shopping trip.”

Hunk slapped Nasty's back with a broad hand. “You're on.”

Keith laid down his own cards, showing a respectable Cartographer's Accuracy. “We'll have to wait on that until we've sorted out the rest of the passengers. They need to go home, too, and Yantilee and his guys need to plan out safe routes to get them there. You'll probably need a ride too, Vennex.”

Vennex stared at his cards for a moment, and then laid down a stinging Breakdown In Communications. “Zaianne let me contact my folks a few days ago. Mom was... well, she'll cool down eventually. She wasn't all that happy when I signed up, and started yelling at me to muster out a few years ago when Voltron showed up. She'd already lost four sons, and didn't want to lose a fifth. She never remarried, you see, and she wants me back. My whole family wants me to come home and help to run our own business, which is a lot bigger than it used to be. Paladins... I hate to have to say this, but you've had a huge impact on certain industries. Every time you crunch up a warship, that's another warship that has to be replaced, and it takes a huge amount of supplies to do that. All of those supplies have to come from somewhere, and they have to be moved to the right places in a hurry! Even though the Military has its own support and supply corps, it's putting a real strain on the civilian shipping companies.”

Allura guiltily laid down a Precision Strike. “I'm aware, and I'm sorry for that, and it will likely get worse. In order to free the enslaved and conquered worlds from Zarkon's control, we will have to cripple or destroy the various shipyards and production facilities, as well as the forts and bases. This will hurt the civilian sector in some ways, I cannot deny that, but we are trying to keep the damage to an absolute minimum.”

Vennex sighed. “For which I thank you. My family... well, we aren't precisely loyalists, but we depend on things staying pretty much as they are. They'll thank you for saving my life, but they don't really approve of what you're doing. It's hard to imagine the Empire without Zarkon running it. He's sort of embodied everybody's way of life for pretty much forever, and a lot of people aren't going to like the change.”

Pidge laid down her cards, showing a worryingly apt Regicide. “We don't really have much of a choice. If Zarkon and Haggar are allowed to keep going like they have been, they'll wind up destroying everything. Since 'everything' includes my own homeworld, I'd rather stop him sooner than later. Actually, if shipping is going to get messed up anyway, it might as well get messed up in favor of the little guy. Redirect all of that stuff to the places that really need it, instead of the Military-owned ports. If shipping breaks down totally in spots, I'll bet that Yantilee can find someone to pick up the slack. The _Quandary_ used to be a trade ship before he was a warship, or a pirate for that matter. Come to think of it, are the Sikkhorans still around? Maozuh says that they were some of the best long-loop traders in six Sectors.”

Trenosh brightened up a little. “Yes, actually, although Zarkon has kept them planetbound for the past... oh, roughly four hundred years or so. They're not too far from Arcobi, and I've visited their world. I have it on the best authority that they yearn to take up that trade again. The fact that the _Quandary_ is still in service is a cause for great, if secret joy for them.”

Hunk laid down his cards with a determined expression, showing a welcome Economic Imperative. “Put that on the 'to do' list, Allura. If we can get the liberated planets off of the Imperial grid and onto their own as quick as we can—boom, stability. Nothing messes up a civilization like missing dinner, and if we can keep the infrastructure running, it'll make a lot of things easier in the long run.”

Lance grinned and laid down a triumphant Secret Agenda. “You'll want to talk to Jilphix-Farr, the Xelocian we rescued. His folks already have a trade network set up, and that can be expanded all over the place. If we can get them talking with the Sikkhorans and whoever else likes to get stuff to where it needs to be, it'll give us a head start. Doesn't Tepechwa run a gang of smugglers, Teach?”

Nasty thought about that for a long moment. “Yeah, although it's mostly ship parts and other big hardware, and his network's not all that far-reaching. It's secure, though, and he got some seriously good stuff from that ship's graveyard. I can't promise anything, but he might be able to help put together a couple-three trade ships, just to help get the enterprise off of the ground. He'll want a piece of that action, I warn you—the Empire's been milking Hepplan space for all it's worth for a long time now, and they're getting desperate.”

“Another potential target,” Shiro observed thoughtfully. “If there are things that the Empire wants from there, then it would probably be a good idea if we kept them from getting those things, and it would keep Tepechwa and his lot friendly. From what I've been able to put together, Tepechwa's working with, but not fully a member of the Ghost Fleet.”

Nasty gestured agreement. “Got it in one. He's Tchak's buddy, but he's in it for the salvage, really. Cracking his home space loose of Zarkon's grip would bring him in all the way, and the sooner that happens, the better. Hepplonir used to be a power in that Sector before the Imperials showed up.”

Shiro nodded, laying down a cautious Urban Warfare. “We'll get to them. First things first, though, we'll need to have a good plan of attack, and more than one by preference, so that we can switch tactics if something goes wrong. The Military is far too large to take on in a head-on fight. We'll need to weaken it at strategic points and take it out section by section in such a way that it can't regroup effectively. It's not just Zarkon and Haggar that we're fighting, it'll be the General Staff, princes and High Houses. They won't let go of their holdings easily.”

There was a high-pitched war cry from floor level as Ranax tried another assault upon Tilla's forelegs, and a loud _oop-oop-yugga-yugga-grunt-grunt-tweet_ told them that he'd brought in backup. Tilla glanced down in mild disgust, shifted her weight slightly, and flicked the toes of her right front foot out just as Ranax hit them. The baby went tumbling head over heels back the way he'd come, his toy hooting mockingly the whole way. Trenosh picked up his son before the cub could gather himself up for another attack, settling the breathless brat comfortably in his lap.

“Shall we take that for an omen, I wonder?” he mused, stroking his son's fur with a gentle hand.

Keith shrugged. “No point. It's still too early to tell either way.”

“We'll still have to take thought for the future,” Shiro said quietly, “his and ours.”

Pidge gave him a narrow look. “Any hints?”

“Not yet.” Shiro's gaze strayed to his right hand, non-mechanical and getting stronger day by day, and he clenched and relaxed the hand just to feel the muscles and tendons working together, and the strong beat of the pulse. “I need more practice. In the meantime, Nasty, how do you read the cards?”

Nasty stood up and looked over everyone's hands. “Looks like a draw. There is a lot of potential here, but nothing really significant yet. The game'll start to get really interesting in the next shuffle or two, maybe the third. Anyone want to dispute that?”

Everybody gave the cards a hard look, but couldn't find anything wrong with the dealer's opinion. “Right. Draw five cookies from the jar, everybody, and hand in your cards so I can reshuffle. Tilla, don't you dare.”

Tilla snorted and nipped at Nasty's bandanna, but took her cookies and her cards without further comment, as did the others. Shiro, however, got more than he expected when the cards landed in his hand, and he froze as the vision crystallized in his mind, as bright and clear as the light of day. He could actually feel something in his mind turning, like a lens, to bring it into sharp detail.

_The cool air, smelling of an alien autumn. A brisk breeze through an open window, and a view of a large room that had the slightly shabby look of a frequently-used official function space, the colony's crest high on one wall showing flaking and faded paint. A low murmur of worried conversation curled through the air like smoke, bringing with it the tang of fear, of desperation, and of hope. He could see faces, hundreds of them, in a thousand shades of purple; furry, leathery, yellow-eyed, and scaly. None of them friendly, all of them thin and strained, knowing that they had no other choice but to stand there and let this happen. There was a chestnut-and-cream shimmer beside him, and he turned to watch as Allura placed her signature on the document, then turned it over to the hollow-eyed Galra official standing next to her. He read the contract in silence, nodded, and signed it with a shaking hand. Allura gave him one of those winning smiles and held out her hand; the official looked startled for a moment, then gave her a shy smile of his own, and Altean hand clasped Galra hand in an embrace that caused a seismic tremor of sheer relief to ripple through the crowd..._

Shiro blinked, and saw everyone around the table staring at him. Vennex swallowed hard. “What was that? His eyes...”

“He's an Oracle. That was a Vision, wasn't it, Shiro?” Allura asked, her brow creasing in worry. “Oh, dear, and not just a little hunch, either.”

Shiro was uncomfortably aware that he was as tired and sweaty as if he'd just taken a five-mile run, and his belly was telling him that if those cookies didn't enter his system soon, there would be trouble. “Yeah,” he said hoarsely, and reached for the glass of water he'd had sitting nearby and gulped it down. “You and I were... I think we were on one of those failing colony worlds that Nasty told us about. One that the Empire had abandoned. I don't know which one. There was a crowd of Galra watching, letting it happen because they had no other choice. We and their leader were signing some sort of agreement, possibly an alliance.”

“Called it,” Nasty said, shoving the cookie jar over to where he could reach it. “Any idea of when?”

Shiro dug his hand gratefully into the fragrant depths of the jar and pulled out a big pile of assorted pastry. “Not really. All I know for sure was that it smelled like autumn. They had the window open, and there was a breeze. You know, sort of crisp, and that smell of fallen leaves?”

Trenosh frowned in concentration, and tapped his fingers on the table. “Morzut, or possibly Valenth. Most likely Valenth. That world was set up solely to produce soldiers for the Military. There are several cities, but the planet is so mineral- and metal-poor that they never built up more than that. It's not much good for farming or ranching, either, and can barely support its own population. The people—what did they look like? Prosperous?”

“Shabby,” Shiro said, “and thin. There was some sort of seal on one wall; the usual Imperial crest, but with some other symbols around it... um, sort of like this--”

The others watched intently as he spelled them out in cookies. Trenosh frowned at them thoughtfully and tapped a fingernail sharply on the table when Shiro had finished. “Valenth. My brother's wife is from there, and she sends regular care packages home out of our overstock. She sent one off recently, as a matter of fact, and her brothers wrote back, saying that the whole neighborhood was in love with her; it had been a hard winter. It's spring there now. Vennex, your family and mine must talk; I will not allow my kin to starve because the Emperor can't be bothered with the welfare of his people.”

Vennex nodded fervently, casting wary glances at the black Paladin as Shiro began to wolf down his cookies. “I think we can expand our service out that far, especially if I do go home to help out with that. As busy as it's been, Mom says that we've got a lot more revenue coming in than usual, and there's always a bunch of unclaimed stuff sitting in our warehouses. Using it for charity will get us a break on our taxes, too.”

“Thank you,” Trenosh said, stroking his son's fur meditatively for a moment before turning his topaz eyes on Allura. “Will you protect Valenth well, my Lady? They are far too close to the Fringe for safety; Gantarash come to raid in that area at times, and Ortakan slavers are seen far too often for comfort. If the Garrison abandons them, they are doomed.”

Allura reached over and patted his hand. “Voltron will defend all those in need,” she promised. “If an agreement is reached as Shiro's Vision suggests, then you need not worry.”

“Thank you,” Trenosh whispered, clasping her hand and giving it a grateful squeeze.

Nasty stared back and forth between them, then dropped his deck onto the table with a disgusted sigh. “Fine. Game called on account of drama, folks. Hunk, get your pet mystic here into the kitchen and get some real food into him before he gets sick on those sweets. Heroes! You can't take a break for a second, can you?”

Kolivan returned early the following day, not with a smile, but with an air of grim satisfaction that told everyone louder than words that some previous mission had been a success. He was a little surprised to find that Yantilee had waited for him before asking the Paladins what the delay had been, but he could not fault the Admiral's reasoning.

“Most of 'em were busy with the passengers,” Yantilee said mildly when they convened for a private talk in one of the Castle's meeting rooms; Shiro and Kolivan exchanged respectful nods in greeting before sitting down as well. “Only person on the command deck regularly was Coran, and you know how he is about adventure tales.”

Coran's mustache bristled in outrage at this calumny. _“Sir!_ I'll have you know that legions of young cadets have hung upon my every utterance, ears pricked and quivering in eagerness to gather up my pearls of wisdom!”

Yantilee raised a scaly eyebrow. “Cultured or true pearls?”

Coran humphed and waggled a hand at Yantilee. “Well, you know, the cultured ones are so much more interesting to look at. It's all the same nacre, you know.”

“But in an unexpected shape and color,” Yantilee said, sitting down and leaning a pair of elbows on the table, which creaked. “And the assayers get all snooty about them. Kolivan here won't have anything to do with such, I know that. His information has to be worth the effort his lads put into getting it. Varda, what the hell happened out there?”

“More than we bargained for,” Pidge replied, settling into a chair. “More than _anybody_ bargained for, I think, but it'll pay off in the end. So, we followed Shussshorim like she told us to...”

The Admiral and the Blade listened with great attention, Shiro noticed, and approved of their silence. He'd had to deliver reports to superior officers who had let their tempers get the best of them, bellowing demands for information and not bothering to wait for it to be delivered before shouting again. Admittedly, there was a lot to take in; the fact that they now had the help of more than one Hoshinthra Warleader—an old, outdated, half-mad Warleader—was a game-changer all by itself. He and his team had already agreed to spare no details, and he saw Kolivan's eyes widen when Zaianne described the living space station that they'd docked at. Yantilee's feathers fluffed up when they described their interview with the Mystics; a sign of heightened emotion, or so Pidge had said, although he remained outwardly calm.

The Admiral _hmph_ 'ed quietly when they finished that part of the story. “That went well. I don't doubt that we'll be receiving a representative soon, the better to hammer out our tactics. What happened after that?”

“They got us lost,” Allura said with some asperity. “They are very much concerned with their privacy, and dropped us out in a sector of space that was not on either Altean or Imperial charts. Zaianne was able to find us a way back, but not a safe one.”

Zaianne leaned her chin upon her hands with a grimace of distaste. “The Szaracan Cluster, which is no easier to traverse from the rear than it is from the front. Kolivan, we will want to declare that place off-limits to all but the most desperate; we nearly ran right into a Shadow of Oblivion in there, and saw a Kharkumn'naknak not once, but twice.”

Kolivan hissed and shook his head ruefully. “There is no eye in that storm, is there? Bantax has suggested that we might establish a base within the Cluster.”

“I'm afraid that I must disappoint him,” Zaianne replied. “If there is any pattern at all to the movements of those anomalies, then it is too complex for me to figure out. Between the monsters and the chaos, we are better off setting up a recruitment booth in a Space Mall. It would be less dangerous.”

Kolivan allowed himself a grunt of amusement. “Describe it, if you would.”

She did, aided by Coran and Allura. Lizenne had a comment or two to share as well. “Stay out of there, my Lord Blade,” she warned him. “I've spoken with the dragons about it, and they agree with me that the Cluster was the site of a mage-war on a scale that beggars description. They don't know much themselves—either their people had nothing to do with what happened there, or the Elders haven't seen fit to tell them what it was all about. All I can say for sure is that it occurred roughly five to seven million standard years ago, and that even these last dregs of the fallout are too dangerous to meddle with even now.”

“Whoa,” Hunk breathed. “Talk about fireworks. Could you get any clues about what was going on?”

She shrugged. “No. In order to find out anything at all beyond that it happened, I would have to hunt down the hidden enclaves of what is left of the Elder Races, and that could take decades. Like the Hoshinthra, they prize their privacy. For the moment, we have other things to worry about. Lotor has managed to obtain thirty Ghamparva craft. You might know more about that than we do.”

Kolivan did, and told them the particulars, which made Modhri wince. “Ye gods, Lady Inzera must have been incandescent. My Lineage provides Nelargo Shipyard with most of its skilled labor, and she'll take the loss of those ships out on them.”

“Not if she can get her claws on Lotor, which she is trying to arrange,” Kolivan said darkly. “Regardless, we will have to neutralize that Shipyard, and as soon as we can manage it. It has been one of my Order's greatest ambitions to cripple or destroy the Ghamparva for centuries, and losing Nelargo would be a telling blow.”

Lizenne smirked. “A blow that might be multiplied considerably if we can follow that with our bringing Tzairona home. My Lineage is heavily invested in Modhri's, and stealing them away would render House Ghurap'Han, one of Zarkon's stalwart supporters, unable to act.”

“Which would also be a good thing,” Yantilee said. “How'd you deal with that lout this time?”

“Keith saved the day for us,” Shiro said, giving credit where it was due. “As it turns out, Pidge isn't the only one who can crack shields...”

Their two guests listened in growing amazement as he described that fight, and Yantilee jerked his head up at their solution to the problem. “You _summoned it?”_

“Oh, heck yeah,” Lance said, thumping a fist onto the table. “Shiro finally managed to squeeze a hint out of his magic talent, and Coran had the Castle make a noise like the ghost of all lentils, and then Doodlebug showed up and tried to eat Lotor's fleet.”

Kolivan rubbed wearily at his forehead. “Doodlebug.”

“Yup,” Keith said with a smile. “You sort of had to be there. We backed off at that point because we didn't want to interrupt them, and Lotor had punched a hole in the Castle, anyway. Zaianne and Coran figured that the best way not to get us eaten by giant space monsters was to set down on the nearest planet to make repairs. By the way, don't go there either. We had a talk with the forest, and now it eats Gantarash. And their ships. And probably everyone else.”

Yantilee's feather-ridge fluffed up so hard that threads of iridescent blue down fluttered onto the table. “Gantarash? Those don't have natural predators. What did you do to that forest?”

“We're not sure,” Allura admitted. “We needed energy, and asked the forest for what it could spare, and it... took repayment in information. It was a little like a Balmera, but... I can't explain it.”

Modhri sighed, rubbing at the newly-healed wound on his side. “The Castle, which is also a living thing, had a temper tantrum and would not let Hunk heal it, and the delay allowed a Ship-Clan of Gantarash to find us. It was one I'd encountered before, led by Gzrap-Zok-Kazza. We'd landed right by one of their ceremonial hunting grounds.”

Kolivan bared his teeth. “I know that clan.”

Pidge made a grotesque face. “We got to know them pretty well, too. They surprised us while we were looking at some old ruins in the forest, gave us a good zap with a stun cannon, and we woke up having to play the Most Dangerous Game with those guys. They cheat, and not in the good way.”

“You couldn't call the Lions?” Yantilee asked.

“No,” Coran said grimly. “All five Lions and the Castle were shut down hard. We weren't able to repel the boarders until the Paladins took care of whatever was doing that. Very tricky technology, if that was what was being used. It's not easy to disrupt Altean systems.”

“It was one of Haggar's early projects,” Pidge said, crossing her arms on the table and resting her chin on her wrists. “She built it so that Zarkon could hunt down all the Alteans who escaped the destruction of the planet, and somewhere along the line, the Gantars stole it and produced that copy, and probably a lot more. She betrayed her whole people to their deaths for power.”

Yantilee heaved a long sigh. “Sociopaths. I've had to deal with a few like that,” and a glint in his eye told them that those meetings had lasted no more than five very eventful minutes. “The whole story, if you would, Paladins.”

That tale took some time and a good deal of arm waving, particularly when it came to clearing the enemy's ships of prisoners. Coran also chimed in, telling of his own bold adventures with fearsome dragons, mighty mice, and one badly rattled Galra soldier. The little drama that had played out on the bridge afterward was not neglected either, and Modhri took the opportunity to slide a data chip each to both Kolivan and Yantilee.

“Those contain all that I have learned about Gantarash culture and habits,” he said solemnly. “Zaianne asked me to write it up for you. This would have been common knowledge years ago, if a lesser officer had not desired my command.”

Kolivan lifted his copy as though it were a jewel. “We will make good use of it. Our habit of basing ourselves in remote locations makes us vulnerable to those monsters, and they are damned difficult to deal with at times. It is good that you did not come away from your adventures empty-handed.”

Lizenne smiled. “Considerably enriched, rather. Quite aside from the rescuees—some of whom you really should speak with—I was able to pick up a great deal of the Jensilgen Sacred Pharmacopoeia while we were there. The King whose palace it was had planted a full God's Garden, and I managed to get samples of most of it. Pidge and Lance added the two that I had missed—Paradise Vine and Quandu's Earrings—to my haul, bless them, and I should be able to propagate the lot.”

Yantilee let out a long, impressed whistle. “Well, so much for our financial difficulties. I know people who would give you your weight in blue diamonds and six of the prettiest pleasure-slaves of any race you cared to name for even one Quandu nut. Best to keep that a secret, though, or you'll have professional thieves from all over lining up to steal them. Anything else interesting happen?”

“I had a vision,” Shiro said, feeling a little self-conscious about speaking up; his talent frightened him a little at times. “If it's a true one, we'll be adding a Galra colony world to the Coalition in a few months. Valenth. They're in bad shape, and it's only going to get worse for them.”

Yantilee nodded. “Doesn't surprise me. I've had my lads keeping an eye on the fringe colonies, and Valenth's the seediest of the lot. They're right on the edge of some bad space, and those that live beyond that edge have noticed that the local garrison is starting to lose interest in hanging around. We'll have to figure out how best to fit them in, get some supply lines set up, find some good work to keep them busy with, and set up a constant watch on that border. Gantarash are bad enough, but the Ortakans... well, even the Gantars don't mess with the Ortakans. What goes into Ortakan space doesn't come out again.”

Hunk tapped a finger on the table. “Yeah, Nasty told us about those guys. It's okay, we've got a couple of guys who can help set some of those supply lines up for you. Trenosh and Vennex know a lot about--”

“ _Aaaaiiiieeeep!”_

The high-pitched war cry cut across Hunk's words like a knife, and there was a fast patter of little feet. A moment later, Kolivan twitched in surprise and lifted a leg; there was something small, purple, fluffy, and furious attempting to chew it off at the knee. “Another one?” Kolivan sighed, detaching the cub from his calf muscles.

Lance snickered at the cub's indignant squeaking. “That's Ranax, Trenosh's son, and he's out to bite the universe. He's already off to a pretty good start.”

Kolivan put the cub down on the table, allowing Yantilee to get a good look, and he vented a thoughtful sound through his nose. “And here I'd thought that Galra were just cloned up in job lots.”

Kolivan's lips twisted in something that wasn't quite a smile. “Not quite yet, no.”

Ranax had caught sight of Yantilee, and was staring up at the enormous Elikonian with wide eyes and mouth agape. He had more or less given up on the dragons, but this great scaly creature looked to be a little more his size. Yantilee lowered his head, bringing his eyes down to the cub's level, and Ranax backed off a bit. Not because he was frightened of this three-eyed behemoth, but because he wanted a running start. With another shrill shriek, he charged; Yantilee was ready for that, jerking his head back up out of reach and capturing the fearsome fluff in the cage of his four huge hands. Undaunted, Ranax bit the nearest finger, growling as loudly as he could.

Pidge snickered. She knew from personal experience that Yantilee had calluses like boiled leather. “Nice catch.”

Yantilee snorted. “Maybe. He's certainly got the attitude that the rest of us have come to know and love. Who's on babysitting duty?”

As if in answer to that, an irritated cry of, “Where have you run off to this time, you little brat?” sounded loud and clear nearby, followed by a sound best described as  _“boioioioioinnngggg!”_

Lance grinned evilly. “Nasty. That was the deal. He got the story first, but he has to look after the brat. He's in here, Teach!”

Nasty came into the room, bite marks all up one pair of arms, the noisy toy gripped in the other two, and a sour expression on his face. That changed to one of surprise and a certain amount of respect, and the Unilu made something that he had probably meant to be a salute in Yantilee's direction. It might have gone better if he hadn't been holding the toy in those hands at the time. _Onk!_

“Yantilee!” he said, dropping the toy on the table with a disgusted look and a sound like an overripe avocado hitting a garbage can lid. “Sorry, boss, he got away from me. If I could just teach him to pick pockets instead of bite them, he'd be the fastest sneak thief in the quadrant. Did I interrupt something?”

Yantilee smiled, while beneath his hands the cub redoubled his efforts to escape. “We'd pretty much finished up. We'll want to interview the passengers soon. Are they available?”

Nasty nodded. “They tend to gravitate to the main lounge. It's the cookie jar, I think. Looking for new crew, Admiral?”

“Always.” Yantilee stood up, releasing the cub, who tackled his toy in a flying leap and would have rolled right off of the table if Zaianne hadn't caught him. “There are usually one or two who want to be something more than an innocent bystander. Princess, if you would be good enough to introduce us?”

“Of course,” Allura said, pushing her chair back. “The more we achieve now, the better. Will the Fleet Captains reconvene any time soon, to plan our next move?”

Yantilee hummed and gazed thoughtfully at the ceiling. “We're a little scattered at the moment. Some are keeping an eye on Bericonde and the other Coalition worlds, others are out having a look around. A little risky, maybe, but an armada that won't stay all together drives the Imperials wild. They can't hit us if we don't give them anything to hit.”

“Good tactics,” Shiro said, standing up and stretching his shoulders. “How long will it be before the next meeting?”

Yantilee shrugged. “Sometime in the next few days, a week at the outside. Sorry about the loose scheduling, but we're privateers, not military.”

“Good!” Lizenne said, surprising them all. “That will give us a little time to relax. Once we've gotten the passengers sorted out, I've a yulpadi in the envirodeck that needs hunting. Consider yourself invited, Kolivan, along with any of your people who feel the need for a stiff run through the grasses.”

Kolivan stood and bowed. “It will be an honor.”

The following afternoon, Shiro breathed deep of the oxygen-rich, grass-scented air and felt his spirits rising with the sun. It may have been past lunchtime back on the Castle, but it was dawn in the envirodeck, and it was hard to remember that this environment was an artificial one. He had been in the habit of taking an early morning jog back on Earth, although not dressed like this. Whenever he shifted, his brand-new leathers creaked slightly. The breeches had been made specifically for him to grow into, having laces that ran the full length of each leg and an adjustable waistline, and the feel of the supple atinbuk leather on his skin was unexpectedly pleasant. And revealing, in a number of ways; he kept wondering whether the Marvel superheroes had the same tailoring system that the _Chimera_ had. It was very hard to keep his eyes on the faces of his teammates, rather than certain other physical features. They had grown up, and in more ways than one, to judge by the looks they were giving each other—and him. That stopped when one of Kolivan's men ambled by; those Marmoran battlesuits didn't leave all that much to the imagination, but this was something else entirely. The man was Palabekan, nearly eight feet of lean, powerful muscle from ears to toes to long furry tail, and they could see every single one of them. His eyes burned like coals in his faintly leonine face, his expression one of grave joy, his hand clutching at the hilt of his blade. Shiro had the impression that something deeply cultural had passed between Lizenne and Kolivan when she had invited the Blades along on this hunt, and wasn't sure of who to ask about it.

Keith nudged him lightly in the ribs. “I asked Mom,” he murmured quietly, seemingly able to read his thoughts. “Lizenne's sort of made them part of the family. In the old days, Galra packs would seal alliances by hunting together, and sharing the feast afterward. The Blades don't have any family except each other, Shiro.”

Shiro had been made aware of how deeply Galra felt about family ties. There was little room in their society for lone wolves, in much the same way that ghosts weren't often considered candidates for active citizenship. Keith had been one of those ghosts, once, but that was gone. He stood proudly, centered in himself and fully a part of this group, and the nervous anger that had hummed through him since his uncle had died was a thing of the past.

Something in his mind's eye flickered slightly, too quick to get a good look at, but he caught a faint rumble of cheerful conversation, and a whiff of something savory. That had been happening more and more often since Tzairona had granted him her strange gift—tiny, unbidden hunches and feelings, little hints of this future or that had been peppering his mind like confetti at odd intervals, or perhaps like the tiny rainbows that sunlight struck from a multifaceted prism. Her gift allowed him to tell, most of the time at least, when those fragments were most likely to happen in his reality, especially the ones that felt like they would happen soon. It was better than the dreams. Some of those made no sense _at all,_ and many of them couldn't possibly happen in this reality, particularly the one where he had to watch the planet Jupiter being eaten by a giant sock puppet. A rainbow toe-sock puppet at that, with the huge ping-pong ball eyes with the wobbly pupils that reminded him of Cookie Monster. He couldn't even say that the god-voiced _Om-Nom-Nom_ noises would haunt his dreams, because they already had. He was beginning to think that an audience with Lance's toad princess might be a very good idea.

Something went _whumph_ at about ear level, and he raised a hand and patted a scaly nose; Soluk had appeared almost magically behind him, silent as a phantom despite his size. Nearly as quiet were the other six Blades that Kolivan had brought along, and they stood at ready along with their leader in respectful silence until their hosts arrived. Lizenne and Zaianne, as proud as queens in their hunting gear, and Modhri, radiating an authority that Shiro had never seen in him before. _Matriarch's man,_ he remembered, and realized that he was seeing something that would have been more at home in the distant past. Kolivan and his men bowed to the ladies, who returned the gesture with regal nods.

“I am told,” Lizenne said with a gesture of respect in Soluk's direction, “that the yulpadi is grazing near the marsh; Tilla has claimed the right to lie in ambush, and will be waiting for us in that gully there--” she pointed upwards at a nearly featureless expanse of yellow prairie almost directly overhead. “We are to drive the yulpadi toward her, preferably tiring it out on the way so that it has less of a chance of hurting her. Yulpadi are extremely fast and agile, and are capable of remarkable leaps; they are strictly sprinters, however, and cannot maintain that speed for long. Be wary of its jaws, which are large and can crush bone, and avoid being kicked or stepped on. Its vision and sense of smell are very acute, but its hearing isn't as good as ours. Shiro, you will be riding on Soluk, and will act as our lookout; are you any good at using bola whips?”

“Some,” Shiro said, secretly relieved that he wouldn't be chasing after the beast on foot. “I'm out of practice.”

Modhri smiled and tossed him a coil of weighted cords. “So long as you don't brain yourself or tangle the dragon, you should be fine. Are we ready, everybody?”

There was a general rumble of assent, and Soluk offered Shiro a leg up. He clambered up and settled into place on the dragon's shoulders, finding a spot among the spikes that might have been made for a rider. Distantly, he hoped that the ship's AI was recording this, because he knew that his mother would have loved to witness this event. Such thoughts were abandoned as the pack moved out at an easy trot. Away from the door, the grasses grew very tall, so much so that Shiro was chest-deep even perched high up a-dragonback. It wasn't long before he caught sight of the yulpadi, and he ducked down so that the grass would hide him; the beast was busily munching on some sort of bush, but it didn't do to take chances.

“Straight ahead, a little more than... about a third of a mile,” he called to the others in a low voice, “bear right a little to stay downwind.”

The team complied instantly, leaning right to approach the yulpadi from the proper direction, Soluk grunting in approval. The sun was warm and the breeze was brisk, and Shiro found that he was enjoying himself more than he had expected to. There was something of Keith in that emotion, he realized, and reflexively checked the bond he shared with his team. In his mind's eye, the young man was blazing with eagerness and a deep sense of belonging, the gift of his mother's blood, and that was affecting the rest of the team. As if in response to this discovery, Shiro caught another quick flash of some future or other, one where he and the others were in battle, and no words were needed to direct each other at all. Six bodies. One mind. One will. All joined together as one, even as the Lions combined to form something greater than themselves. There was a wholeness to that state that Shiro found himself yearning for, and he had to shake off his own surprise at that yearning in favor of the matter at hand.

The grasses thinned at the top of a low ridge that rimmed the depression that the marsh lay in, and the team paused there to observe the prey.

It was big, and enormously tall, and it reminded Shiro a little of certain works of Surrealist art back home. Salvador Dali would doubtless have loved to have added yulpadis to his mental menagerie, along with the stilt-leg elephants and demon horses. Despite its awkward-looking build, it minced nimbly along the edge of the marsh, its eight, impossibly thin-seeming spidery legs moving with an alien grace, the tan stripes on its black hide allowing it to merge almost seamlessly with the surrounding grasses. Soluk hummed low in his chest and settled down on his belly, the rest of their team coming up to lurk close beside him. They watched in silence for a little time as the yulpadi crunched on a stand of reedlike growths, making Lizenne smile.

“Bittru reed,” she said quietly. “Sweet and filling, but it fuddles the reflexes a bit. Good. It won't be quite as nimble as it would, ordinarily.”

Zaianne eyed the creature's long legs. “Bolas, then. Tie a few of its legs together and make it run.”

“We can do that,” Hunk said, doubtless thinking of stew on the hoof. “I've been practicing.”

One of Kolivan's men pointed up past them a way, to where the open patch of prarie lay, bordered on one side by the darker yellow wrinkle of a shallow ravine. In that ravine was a small but significant shape; Tilla was looking back at them, letting them get a good view of her position before vanishing back into the grasses.

Shiro frowned at the marsh, with its inviting pools of shallow water. “Will the yulpadi try to hide in the marsh?”

Lizenne followed his gaze. “It might. The mud's not deep enough to inconvenience it, but we'll be in trouble.”

Kolivan rumbled. “Let us get into position first. You stay back, and drive it back toward us if it tries to break away toward the rocks.”

Shiro nodded. “We'll herd it, you hobble it. Gotcha. You think that we can manage that, Soluk?”

Soluk chirped agreeably. One of the Blades, a big, powerfully-built Kedrekan, held up a hand. “I'll spook it away from the water. My folks used to live on a river delta, and I spent a lot of time flushing tebark-birds up from the reeds when I was a cub.”

“Have a care,” Modhri warned him. “You're too small for that beast to take you seriously, and it may try to bite or stomp you instead. It's getting on for mating season, and that makes them aggressive.”

The Blade looked mildly offended by this, but Pidge indicated Lizenne's spearhead. “See that? That's a tooth from one of their natural predators. You're kind of outclassed there.”

Since the spearhead was more than a foot long, the Blade had to concede the point. A few more suggestions were traded back and forth, and then the team vanished into the grasses, visible only as a faint disturbance that did not come from the wind. Shiro patted Soluk's shoulder. “Shall we?”

Soluk cast him an amused glance and rose into a half-crouch, slipping over the edge of the rise as smoothly and silently as a great cat. Soluk approached carefully, allowing Shiro time to uncoil his bundle of bola-whips and get them laid out and ready across his lap where they wouldn't fall away easily; glances above the grass told him that the dragon was keeping himself between the beast and the area that Kolivan had termed “the rocks”. The name was something of an understatement for that patch of raw ground, clearly visible at this angle as a great ragged stretch of jutting boulders interspersed with narrow, pebble-strewn gullies. Bad ground for the yulpadi, maybe, but worse for the hunters, particularly because each and every one of those boulders had hosepipe-thick vines growing all over them that had thorns like steel railroad spikes. Shiro shuddered a little at the thought of trying to flush the big animal out of that morass and readied a bola in his good hand.

Soluk paused and turned, standing up a little taller so that they could see over the grass. A few moments later, they saw the yulpadi jerk its head up in surprise at something around its front feet, and then watched it thrust its head down, jaws agape to show huge grinding teeth, only to rear up onto its four rear legs with a baying shriek of alarm; the big Blade was clinging to its neck just behind the head and attempting to rip open its windpipe with his toenails. Shiro and Soluk stared as the creature danced around in circles, flailing furiously in an attempt to dislodge its attacker.

“Well,” Shiro remarked, “that's one way to do it.”

Soluk snorted and moved off again.

The yulpadi roared like a jet engine and executed a full-body whipcrack that would have split the spine of any Earthly mammal, flinging the Blade away and leaping into a run straight toward the rocks. Soluk surged into a gallop, not bothering to hide himself now, and he rushed the huge animal with a bellow of his own. Shiro clamped his legs hard around Soluk's barrel and began to whirl his bola-whip; the yulpadi reared again, slashing at Soluk with three sharp hooves as it spun on the rear two, missing by a narrow margin. Shiro let his bolas go, and it was more through luck than anything else that the weighted cords wrapped firmly around one center-left leg. Not a hobbling cast like he'd hoped, but the trailing ends would drag behind it, catching on every possible object that the rough terrain could offer. Muttering a swearword under his breath, he pulled another bola from his bundle. Someone else, possibly Hunk, let go another bola-whip, and with better results—the yulpadi lurched as the rear two legs on the right side were suddenly bound together, and Soluk took the opportunity to lunge forward again, fangs bared and roaring. The yulpadi fled, kicking angrily with its encumbered legs, this time back toward a copse of the tall, blue-leaf trees on the other side of the field. Soluk followed at a dead run, allowing Shiro an excellent view of an ambush being sprung. There was another of those rock outcroppings halfway to the trees, bare of vines but not of hunters. He could recognize the familiar shapes of the ladies as they sprang from that handy height along with Keith, Kolivan, and Allura, landing squarely on the yulpadi's long back and jabbing quickly at the thigh and shoulder muscles before leaping away again. Simultaneously, more bola whips whickered out of the grasses at the foot of the stone, binding the legs further. The yulpadi staggered, recovered, snapped viciously at something that got too close, and then burst into a lurching run in the right direction. Out and down now, onto the wide-open, tempting flats of that particular bit of yellow prairie; even with its legs compromised and leaking bluish blood from the wounds on its shoulders and hips, it was still faster than any of them and it knew it. Shiro heard Soluk grunt in triumph and felt him ease into a long, loping gallop, flanking the beast on the left. Shiro took the opportunity to cast his second bola, and whooped in triumph when it caught the first and second legs on the left. The yulpadi bucked, yowling in fury, kicked out hard enough to break a few of the cords binding it, and then turned on Soluk with snapping jaws and flying hooves.

Shiro dropped flat to Soluk's back as the dragon threw himself into a low dive right under the long-legged creature's lunge, then whirled around and snapped at the yulpadi's left-rear leg. He missed, but the beast had had enough. It leaped again, this time springing high over the dragon's head and landing firmly on all eight feet, and then took off like a rocket toward the ravines on the far side of the field. Soluk didn't bother to follow. He came to a halt, lungs heaving, and puffed a breathless laugh. Sure enough, the moment that the yulpadi was close enough, Tilla launched herself out of the ravine, seized the animal's throat in her jaws, and used its own momentum to flip it through the air and slam the yulpadi's enormous body onto the ground hard enough to break its neck. Soluk boomed an accolade, as did the rest of the hunting party, and Shiro and the dragon went went forward at a decorous walk to see the fruits of their labors.

By the time they arrived at the ravine, Tilla had already pulled the huge carcass into the declivity and was growling like something out of a nightmare. Figuring that discretion was the better part of survival, Shiro climbed down from Soluk's shoulders and let the dragon go on ahead, settling for wobbling a little distance away on shaky legs and sitting down on a handy rock to wait for the others to arrive. He smelled them before he saw them: the sweet, earthy aroma of an Altean, the canine-and-spice-cabinet of the Galra, and the reassuringly primate-like odor of his fellow Humans. All of them would need a thorough wash after this, but he wouldn't have missed it for the world. Someone made a comment about roughing it, raising a ripple of laughter from the others. He raised his head to see them come out of the grasses around him, weary, sweaty, sore, and smiling. Even Kolivan looked as though he had enjoyed himself thoroughly, and Keith had a look of primal satisfaction on his face that was echoed in his mother's. The big Kedrekan seemed to be undamaged, thankfully, and was casting yearning glances in the direction of the ravine.

Lizenne noticed this and tapped his shoulder with an admonishing finger. “Let them have this moment, Sir Blade. We can't digest the organ meats anyway, and they'll clean all of that out of the carcass for us while we rest. That was excellent, everyone. Very, very well done. If any of you are traditional enough to keep a _khe'guon_ string, you may have your pick of the teeth with my blessing.”

Shiro saw his fellow Paladins glow with pride at her words, and, surprisingly, the eight Blades as well. Modhri chuckled and thumped down next to Shiro with a weary grunt. “I will take the fact that I am now strong enough to take part in such a hunt as my reward. That and a hot soak, I think. I thank you for this day, my Lady.”

“As do we,” Kolivan said with deep respect.

Hunk flopped down as well, massaging one leg with his big hands. “Yeah, us too. Wow. That's my exercise for the day. How are we going to get the carcass back to the kitchen? We're a long way from the doors, and I'm pooped.”

“Simple,” Lizenne said calmly, sitting down beside Modhri. “Chimera?”

“ _Yes?”_ the AI's slightly tinny voice asked, making them look around in surprise.

“Kindly send in... hmmm, I'd say four hover-crates and packing film, please, and tools and protective gear sufficient for the handling of that carcass. Did you get good recordings?”

“ _I did indeed,”_ the _Chimera_ replied. _“They are ready for replay whenever you wish to review your activities. The crates and equipment are on their way.”_

“Thank you,” Lizenne said, and smiled at her companions. “It's all too easy to forget that we're aboard a ship, isn't it?”

Lance puffed a laugh. “I'll say. It feels good, though.”

“I'd feel even better if I could splash around in the marsh a little,” Allura said, scratching at her scalp under the tightly-braided crown of her hair. “Perhaps later. I will certainly welcome a big bowl of stew.”

“Two big bowls,” Pidge declared firmly, flopping down and stretching out sore legs. “Big, big bowls. With ice cream for after.”

There was a rather nasty ripping sound from the ravine, followed by noises that suggested that two very large appetites were being slaked. “Later,” Shiro suggested.

Modhri smiled and pointed off to his right. “We keep a small camp by the river a little way over there, and there is tea and dry rations, if you don't mind a short walk.”

Lance groaned. “I'd kill for a drink right now.”

That sounded good enough to coax the weary hunters back to their feet, and a few minutes' amble through the tall grass brought them out onto the banks of a sparkling little river, complete with a level spot shaded by a large flowering bush, a circle of stones that had been used fairly frequently as a firepit, and a cache in a hollowed-out rock that produced a kettle, charcoal, a packet of tea leaves, and a sack of what looked like jerky and granola bars. Before long, they were lounging at their ease with cups of hot but refreshing tea and handfuls of snacks, which were surprisingly good. Shiro found the granola particularly to his taste, and had crunched through three bars before slowing down enough to ask what was in them.

“Toasted wild surbek grain,” Modhri replied, ticking the ingredients off on his fingers, “sarcen seed, crumbled latti, thurla, and padro nuts; dried quillop, urx, borna, and hallas berries, a dash of tinthic spice, a slosh of sintra nectar, all held together with chirax gum. All of which grows naturally here and on Zampedri, and sometimes nothing else will get Lizenne going in the morning. I've just made up a fresh batch. Would you like some to take back to the Castle with you?”

“And the recipe,” Hunk said firmly, “and maybe some ingredients. These would be really good additions to the lunchboxes, guys.”

“They're better than the energy bars we make, that's for sure,” one of the Blades, a lean fellow with a goodly share of Namturan blood in him, said cheerfully. “If the dragons allow us to establish a foothold on their world, we'll need the recipe as well.”

Kolivan gnawed thoughtfully at his jerky and rumbled, “Negotiations have begun. They're wary, of course, but not totally averse to the idea of having us around. We can be taught, it seems.”

The big Palabekan laughed. “If it allows us days like these, I am more than willing to learn!”

“Be careful what you wish for,” Lizenne said wryly. “It is not easy, and the dragons believe that carelessness has consequences. You will not be permitted to kill or drive off any species that threatens or inconveniences you; those have a place and a part in their world, and each one is vital; if something eats your friend, vengeance is not an option. You'll also have to learn to hunt and forage in bad weather or go hungry until it clears, to say nothing of figuring out what may be eaten safely, and what might kill you. The first lesson is the hardest—to listen to what the world and the dragons are telling you, and to take it all seriously. We Galra are just a tad arrogant, and that lesson comes hard at times.”

There was a snort from Allura. “There's an understatement. But what about Modhri? He seems to fit right in.”

Modhri smiled fondly at his wife. “I've been following her lead since I was old enough to walk. Any trail she breaks stays broken, and it's easy to follow along, particularly if you pay attention. I am very fortunate.”

The pair shared one of those deeply loving looks that tended to make others just a little envious, and then the mood was broken by a titanic belch from nearby. Soluk, his jaws smeared with blue-purple fluids and a big smile on his scaly face, poked his head through the grasses and uttered a string of rumbles and chirps.

“Thank you,” Lizenne replied, setting her cup down. “Is she feeling better?”

Soluk hummed happily. _“Gronk,”_ he said, and licked his chops with a very blue tongue.

“Very good. We'll get right on it while you two take a nice nap,” she said, and beckoned to the others. “Come along, all of you, and I'll show you how to turn a dead animal into a delicious dinner.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to everyone who reads our works and leaves comments/kudos! It was great to see how many people were happy to see us, and we will hopefully continue to entertain! We will now leave you to your lemonade and fireworks, and will see you again next week!
> 
> Public Service Announcement: Please note that this is a work of fiction, and not an instructional guide to hunting. If faced with a giant dangerous animal, please do not jump onto its back and attempt to tear its throat out with your toenails. We will take no responsibility past slapping our foreheads and groaning before returning to our storytelling.


	3. Me Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An alternate title to this fic would be, "The Authors Think They're Funny And Wanted To Turn This Story Into A Songfic." You'll understand soon.

Chapter 3: Me Time

In Human terms, a feast generally involves a main dish, several side dishes, numerous sauces, gravies, and chutneys, and the really fancy ones involve as many as twelve courses. They are usually accompanied by numerous fine wines and followed by extravagant desserts, and the usual result is a mass food coma with bonus inebriation.

At this feast there was only stew, lots of it, and that was all that anybody needed. It made everything worth it, from the hazards and efforts of the hunt itself to the somewhat disgusting work of butchering the kill; the dragons had cleaned it out very effectively and had even removed the legs and neck, but there had still been a lot of work to do, and the carcass that they had left behind them once they were done was by no means picked clean. That was necessary, Lizenne had told them—there were creatures in the envirodeck that actively needed those leftovers for their own health, and by the next day, even the bones would be gone. Most of the meat had been packed away into cold storage for later, along with the hind shinbones and hide, but a large chunk of purple-blue haunch meat had been reserved for their meal. All of them had been required to step through a decontamination booth, and then help prepare the complicated recipe. It was worth it, all of it was worth it, and Shiro felt that he would do it all again for just one more bowl. He wasn't alone in that; all of his teammates and the Blades as well were nose-deep in their bowls, although he did look up at one time to see an odd little exchange. Zaianne had pushed her glass over to where the big Palabekan could refill it from the pitcher, and he had to lean over Pidge to do so. Pidge was bent over her stew like a hawk mantling over its prey, and the Blade's head wasn't far above her shoulders when he set the pitcher down again. He paused, sniffed the air with a faintly puzzled look on his face, and then bent his head to take a deeper sniff just above the back of Pidge's head. When he straightened up again, he did so with a look of mingled surprise and delight, and with an admixture of anticipation that irritated Shiro for some odd reason. Before he could object, Zaianne gestured a sharp negative at the man, which made him flinch slightly and give her an _oh, all right, I'm sorry_ sort of look before turning back to his food. Pidge never noticed, her full attention fixed on the contents of her bowl.

Shiro thought back to what Modhri had said long ago, back when Lizenne was first teaching them how to deal with Druids, about how Galra men would catch the scent of their intended mates by sniffing at their hair. Pidge, despite her childlike appearance, wasn't a little girl anymore, for all that Zaianne had warned the man off. For some reason, the thought of any man faunching after Pidge stirred feelings in him that he'd felt once before and had never expected to feel again, and he had to sit there, nursing his glass of water for a minute or two before he could get those emotions firmly under control. He had been warned about this, numerous times, in fact; Coran had made it very clear that the bonding process naturally entailed a more... cohesive... arrangement than most fighting teams on Earth generally formed. On the other hand... well, it would be her choice in the end, and Keith was living proof that such unions were successful.

_That's for the future,_ he thought, although his inner eye showed him no clues that day, nor in the days that followed.

Vennex settled into the couch in the main lounge with a long, tired sigh. Modhri had asked him if he'd like to participate in the yulpadi hunt, but he had politely declined. His adoptive uncle's wife still made him nervous, as did Zaianne and her fellow Blades of Marmora. So did the Paladins, for all that they had gone out of their way to be friendly. Somehow, that just made it worse. Adding the dragons and a very large, very strange, and very dangerous animal to the mix was entirely too much for his nerves. Instead, he had retreated to more familiar ground, meeting with people interested in support, supply, and shipping. That meant Trenosh, who knew more about transporting foodstuffs and household goods than he did, and the Captain and certain of the crew of the  _Osric's Quandary._ His conscience had been nagging at him all day because of that, despite the fact that the dragonlike Elikonian had been far more polite and attentive than half of the Galra distribution and customs officials that he'd seen his own relatives wrangling with before he'd joined the Military, and that the  _Quandary's_ own chief Quartermaster was a thoroughgoing professional where it came to outfitting large ships. Jilphix-Farr the Xelocian was eager to expand operations into a Sector that might soon be removed from Imperial control, and even a few of the other rescuees had expressed an interest in the enterprise. The ship's best pilot and best astrogator, Kezz and Haswick, had pointed out shortcuts through odd bits of space that he was sure that even Trenosh's grandfather didn't know of, and there had been numerous others who'd had good ideas to share, so long as everyone got some of the benefit. There was a lot of potential there, and a lot of risk, and then he'd had to contact his family and run it by them.

It was tempting, very tempting, but it was dangerous, and a lifetime of Imperial propaganda was giving him some trouble. He'd been taught from an early age that Emperor Zarkon was the rightful ruler of the known universe, and that any who set themselves against him were bad and wrong and evil. It was  _right_ that Galra were supreme over all, it was  _right_ that all other races must either submit or die, it was  _right_ that revolution was punished with annihilation; it was all right and true because that was what Zarkon had decreed, and his word was law. The simple fact that he was still decreeing it after ten thousand years was proof of his power.

Vennex had outgrown most of that long ago, first through playing with non-Galra children when he and his brothers had been small, and then later when Modhri had rescued him from that Gantarash ship. He had not been returned to his family immediately, but had remained under his rescuer's wing for several weeks. He had seen how that brave man had treated peoples other than his own, and how he had protected them from the malice of his own men at times. Modhri had never spoken of how his views had differed from the norm, but he had lived them every day, and those around him had respected him deeply. Vennex had come to quietly idolize him during that time, admiring the calm, dignified demeanor and the stalwart heart of the man, and had almost refused to return to his family when it had come time to go home. He had burned to follow that example, and had joined up despite his mother's objections, intent on bringing glory to the Empire in ways that didn't involve breaking things. He had completed his mandatory five years as a common soldier with great anticipation of taking the training that would allow him to rise in the ranks, only to stop in horror when those upper ranks had betrayed and destroyed his hero for no better reason than greed. It was a breach of trust that had shattered his faith in the Military, and in the Emperor himself when the great one had condemned a good and honorable man to a hideous death in the arena on the strength of a lie. Vennex had been reluctant to go home after that, and just as reluctant to go on with a military career. Why bother rising, if it just got you cut down? His relatives would never let him forget his bad decision if he gave up and went home, and so he had continued in his present rank for three undecided years, drawing his pay and sending most of it home in a kind of vicarious apology.

And now this.

The irony of the fact that he was now doing more good for his own people by helping Zarkon's enemies than he had in the past eight years of military service was not lost on him. Or on his kin, for that matter. They had been relieved that he had survived, of course, but had been initially horrified at the company he was keeping. That had turned to fascination fairly quickly, and now they were intrigued by the possibility of new business contacts in an area of space where they wouldn't have to fight with the constant corruption, kickbacks, and graft that were endemic in the Imperial mercantile sector. He'd heard someone say once that there were no people more mercenary than merchants, but had not expected it to be proven by his own kin. Trenosh's folks, if anything, were even less inclined to give the Emperor the time of day, much less their loyalty. Not that he blamed them. Arcobi was not a rich planet and it had no voice in either the Center or in the Core Worlds, nor did it have much to offer their Governors and military protectors. There was a reason why most of the rebel forces were concentrated out here near the Fringes, particularly now that the Military was so torn between hunting around for Voltron, trailing after the Crown Prince, or struggling to quell the numerous uprisings. There simply was no profit in wasting time and resources on protecting those marginal colonies, not when there was favor and glory to be won elsewhere. Therefore, logic and tradition decreed that those abandoned worlds must find their own ways to survive. He'd helped with that today, setting up the framework for a line of business that would mean the difference between life and death for hundreds of thousands, perhaps even millions of innocent people in the near future, and he would have to be as grateful as they were that his loyalties, however artificially instilled, did not get in the way of their continuing to live.

At least he didn't have to wonder what it was all for—the prickling sensation of baby teeth gnawing on his shin provided a very clear answer to that. He leaned over and lifted Ranax into his lap, setting the toy aside; the cub was as tired as he was, having been brought along to the meeting because Nasty had run off to chase the mice, shouting something about silverware before disappearing into the ventilation shafts, and the cub had spent the entire afternoon playing with spare machine parts and biting pirates. It had done his own family good to see the brat trying to savage the enemies of the Empire, too.

“Long day, eh, lad?” Coran said, leaning his elbows on the back of the couch beside him. “Good work, though. You've made life easier for a lot of people today.”

Vennex nodded, absently stroking the sleepy cub's fur. “It's all I can do. I'm not the hero that I dreamed of being.”

“Oh, I don't know, you're doing fine so far,” Coran said, twiddling his mustache musingly. “You've survived a raging space battle, been captured by terrifying aliens, been miraculously rescued, fought another battle and actually won it, and now you've saved a lot of lives. You're also warm and dry and comfortable, and even have access to proper sanitary facilities. A lot of heroes have managed the first but not the second, believe you me. Alfor and his bunch included. A lot of their escapades didn't end very well, you see, and it was sometimes weeks before they saw a proper toilet, much less a decent medical facility. It's amazing that they'd lived so long, come to think of it. Our current batch has had better luck thus far.”

Vennex thought about that for a long moment, listening to the soft snoring of the cub in his lap. “Coran... did Zarkon and the others go out of their way to make alliances like Lance and the others do?”

The Altean gazed down at him in surprise, and then his brows pinched in regret. “No. It wasn't encouraged, and that suited Zarkon right down to the ground. According to those in charge at the time, Voltron was supposed to _defend_ the people, not make itself available to them. Not directly. To the various governments, sure, but not the actual people. After all, one of those commoners might suggest to Alfor or Gyrgan—they had Views about this sort of thing—that maybe their government was filthily corrupt or repressive, and should be removed. No high official ever wants people like the Paladins talking to the general public. It gives them ideas. Zarkon was fine with that, since he felt that common folk were beneath him. Prince, you know.”

Vennex nodded. “And the Golrazi have always been proud. This team is very different.”

Coran chuckled. “You have no idea. All of the previous teams were the best of the best at what they did, even the fellow who'd been a janitor before becoming a Paladin. All of them were one-in-a-million sorts, all carefully screened by at least three boards of directors before even being allowed to set foot in the Paladin's Academy, and from that rare selection, the Lions would choose only one each, and keep them for however long they lasted. All but one of this current batch was gathered up almost by accident from a single world. Perfectly ordinary, most of them, and very young for this work. Allura was never intended for this job, either.”

“She wasn't?” Vennex asked, looking up in surprise.

“Ancients, no, she was destined for diplomatic work, like her mother, and an arranged marriage to one of the outworld nobles.” Coran shrugged. “Heroic, perhaps, but only in small, dull ways. Then everything changed, and all of us had to change with it. The universe still needs its small, dull heroes, though, the people who see to it that the plumbing runs properly and the files are in order. Welcome to the team, I suppose.”

Vennex puffed a faint laugh and allowed himself to relax. He could be proud of his efforts to stave off civilization's greatest enemies—famine, war, and chaos—for the time being. Itchy conscience aside, he felt good.

There was a rumble of conversation out in the hall a little time later, and the Paladins and their Galra companions strode in. They were clean and dressed in their usual attire, but he could see the successful hunt by the light in their eyes and in the way that they walked. It was like looking up from mulching one's garden one morning to see a troupe of mythical creatures going by: rare and beautiful and potentially very dangerous, magic and mystery wafting about them like perfume. Well, perhaps not perfume. There was a definite fragrance about them, but it smelled more like stew than like flowers. The legendary _Ezoraimath_ that the group had reminded him of could be detected, it was said, by their customary aroma of winter wind touched with frost-blooms, but he doubted that those fantastical creatures ever sat down to a nice meaty bowl of stew. Well, perhaps. They were predators, after all, and Old Granny Kashtmehtz the Storm-Witch, a frequent figure in those same old tales, might have been persuaded to share her magical brews with them.

“There you are, team, ladies, gentlemen,” Coran said cheerfully, waving a hand in greeting. “Were you able to catch that bizarre, leggy beast?”

Lance grinned and patted his belly. “We sure did! We did really well, too! No injuries, lots of awesome visuals—get Chimera to play the vids for you sometime—Tilla put it down hard at the end, and the stew was great. We brought a bucket of it back for you guys.”

Hunk set a large tub on the table with a dreamy smile. “Still warm, too. How did your day go?”

Coran allowed Vennex to describe the day's small triumphs in favor of prying up the lid on the tub and sniffing in happy anticipation at the fragrant contents. The scent also brought Ranax awake, and the cub squeaked, hauled himself up onto the table, and toddled over to see what smelled so good. Coran, seeing that he had competition, crammed the lid back on and tried to pull the tub away, but Ranax wasn't having any of that. Galra cubs are surprisingly strong, and the little claws enhance their grip wonderfully; Ranax latched onto the tub with fearsome growls and attempted to claim it for himself. To his credit, Vennex managed to deliver his report in full despite the small war that was breaking out right next to him without so much as looking around.

“The Admiral's very pleased and has given us all the go-ahead to start on building those supply lines,” he finished up dutifully, “and has asked me to tell you that the other Fleet Captains will be back sometime tomorrow to plan out the next liberation effort. Kolivan, sir, you'll want to talk to Maozuh about the details—if nothing else, it'll be a good way to smuggle your people to and from odd spots along the way without being seen. Nobody looks at the people who haul freight.”

Kolivan nodded thoughtfully, and Allura gave Vennex a bright smile that went a long way toward making his efforts worth the strain. “You did very well today, Vennex, and thank you. We were about to head over to the kitchen for some ice cream. Would you like some? And you should really try the stew, it's... oh, dear.”

Coran and Ranax were nose-to-nose now, not least because the cub had gotten a good grip on Coran's mustache. They were both growling angrily at each other in a gravelly duet that was making it very hard for the onlookers to keep a straight face.

“My goodness,” Allura said. “I simply cannot imagine what having ten cubs at this stage is like.”

Vennex sighed and had to fight down a surge of homesickness. “It's noisy, you have to pack away anything breakable, and everyone winds up wearing shin-guards for months at a time. What's ice cream? I've heard it mentioned, but I don't think that I got any.”

There was a yowl from across the table as Coran extracted his facial hair from Ranax's fingers, and it was unclear just which of them had uttered it. Keith snorted in amusement. “It's a dessert, and it's good. You'll want to have some stew first if you haven't eaten yet. There's enough in there for Coran and Ranax, too. Ranax can have some, right?”

“Certainly,” Zaianne said, catching up the cub and picking tufts of orange hair out of his fists. “It will do him good. Where is Trenosh, Vennex?”

“In the kitchen, I think,” Vennex said, levering himself out of his seat; that stew really did smell very good, and breakfast had been a long time ago. “He said that he wanted some tea. We had to bring Ranax along to the meeting, and between setting up the business arrangements and keeping Ranax from eating Maozuh and Kezz, it kind of wore him out.”

“And you, too, from the look of it,” Modhri said quietly, beckoning with one hand. “Come along, then, and we'll give you a better description of where your dinner came from.”

Lance grinned and propped a hip on the table with a suggestive look in the girls' direction. “And of the people who caught it. Those hunting leathers sure show off a person's best qualities. Would you believe that Pidge here has some really nice curves under that sweater? You wouldn't think it to look at her now, but when she's— _ack!”_

Pidge had given him a push that toppled him over onto the floor with a crash. “Can it, Lance,” she snapped, and then cocked a dangerous eyebrow at Vennex. “Any comments?”

Vennex gave her a faint smile. “You remind me a lot of my sister, and I think that dinner is a good idea.”

Shiro bent down and hauled a crestfallen Lance to his feet. “Good choice of words. Coran, are you all right? Good. Now let's see about getting some bowls to put good things in.”

Hunk lifted the tub again, smiling at the dirty looks that Coran and Ranax were shooting each other. “Oh, I dunno, Pidge, Lance is right. You _do_ look really good in those leathers. So did everybody else. I bet that those outfits could make even the mice look sexy. Speaking of that, I'm still waiting on those teddy-bear PJ's, Lance.”

Pidge glared at him, her ears flushing pink. “No fair, Hunk, I can't hit you.”

“I know,” Hunk said cheerfully, “you already got that out of your system during the last training session. We're good. Ice cream, now.”

Haggar looked up at the jutting shapes of the new transformation array as the main casing was sealed into place, and felt a certain grim satisfaction. In a way, the Paladins had done her a favor; she had spent the time after the events on Teravan redesigning and upgrading her machinery and equipment, with enhancements and abilities that simply would not have fit into the original science deck. The foundry and assembly apparatus had gotten their share of that as well, and it would not be long before she would be able to produce the first product. The Ghamparva had seen fit to bring her a captured rebel that would serve admirably as a subject as well, and she was eager to get started.

“How much longer, Meksant?” she asked, her voice echoing coldly in the vast chamber.

The elderly Master Engineer glanced up from the plans and gave her a tolerant look. While Haggar had not been capable of caring for much of anything or anyone for longer than even she could conveniently remember, she was still capable of giving respect where it was due, and was willing to admit that the old man had earned hers. Master Engineer Meksant was one of the very few people in all the starry universe who didn't hate or fear her, being old enough and having worked in the Center for long enough to have pretty much seen everything; he was also enough of a genius in his own right to be perennially unimpressed by any of it. She had only seen him angry twice—once when the Bagantush project had been canceled, and again when the Rogue Witch's man had erased the entire contents of the high-security data bank. Still, he continued undaunted, designing more and better weapons for the Emperor's use. As such, he was one of the very few people with whom she could speak frankly.

“It's going as well as can be expected, my Lady,” he replied firmly, casting a narrow glance up at one of the assembly drones as it fitted one of the conduit systems into the main structure. “You, at least, can be trusted to have all of the necessary parts and materials on hand and ready for installation. Everything is on schedule for the moment and the components test clean thus far. You should be able to start building the first Robeast within... hmm... oh, I'd say a couple of weeks.”

She cast him a suspicious glance of her own. “You seem unsure that this will be finished on time.”

“Insurance,” Meksant replied shortly. “There is always a chance that something will go wrong. If one does not leave a margin for error and mischance, then it is bound to happen. You taught me that yourself, Lady Haggar. Stop trying to make me nervous, it won't work.”

Haggar smiled faintly. “And if I should decide that you would make a good candidate for this apparatus?”

Meksant sniffed primly. “At my age? I should be glad to end my days as something so grand, fighting for Zarkon and the Empire in ways that won't give me a stress headache for once. Don't bother, my Lady. I am currently embroiled in the design work for a new line of Ghamparva-grade warcraft and six other programs, and quite a lot of dangerous people will be very cross with you if you turned me into a monster before I complete those drafts. If you absolutely must use me so, then wait until I'm done.”

Haggar's brow creased in a frown. “I had heard that the Ghamparva were upset about something. Why do they have you working on a new prototype for them? I had thought that they were well-enough pleased with Nelargo's shipwrights.”

Meksant pursed his lips in disapproval. “That pretty-boy Prince Lotor made off with an entire consignment of them. Thirty ships, which is more than enough to make himself a threat to just about anyone. He is not terribly fond of the Ghamparva themselves, and they feel themselves in need of something that can remove his advantages. A bright boy, but brash, and he lets his impulses do his thinking for him. Probably something he got from his sire; I know his mother's Lineage well, and they don't often run to that kind of foolishness.”

Haggar paused for a moment, remembering the bold young prince that she'd gotten attached to all those long centuries ago. “He is very much his father's son,” she mused. “It took Zarkon years to learn caution.”

The Master Engineer humphed and turned away. “If that boy of his keeps on making enemies such as he has been lately, he won't have those years. Well, he isn't the first young fool to make them, and he shan't be the last. He should have been at Bericonde, for instance, rather than playing the robber baron at Nelargo.”

Haggar grunted sourly. A message had been sent to the Prince, warning him of the likelihood that the trade hub would be attacked, but the boy had rather obviously disregarded it. Unable to produce a Robeast in time, she had been forced to send out three of her Druids instead, and the loss of them had come as an unwelcome shock to her aetheric senses. That they had torn a strip out of the Hoshinthra Warleader had been interesting news, but not nearly so interesting as a report of the _Quandary's_ demise might have been. It was worrying, in fact; a mage-bolt that could have split a Sikkhoran Grand Freighter open like a culbar melon had only damaged the Warleader, and not enough to have taken it out of action. The sheer intransigence of the thing was irritating to say the least. Lotor and his fleet might well have won the day at Bericonde, if only by luring that maneating savage away from the battle.

“His father is aware of his activities,” she murmured darkly, “and, for now, permits Lotor to continue. He will have no further aid from the Military if he does not achieve the goals that his father has set him, and if he is captured or otherwise lost, Zarkon will leave him to his fate. The Emperor will not accept failure.”

Meksant frowned at the drone control board and made a few small adjustments. “Wouldn't be the first time. There was that one wild young prince... oh, it had to be back while I was still in initial training. Keprosh, I believe his name was. Brave boy, quite a fighter, and a dedicated explorer, but was a bit more ambitious than he should have been.”

“He was becoming a threat to his father, and when the Lelaspurths captured him, the Emperor let nature take its course,” Haggar concurred in a chilly voice; she had disliked that young man even more than she had disliked Lotor, and hadn't been inclined in the least to intervene when that alien race had taken it upon themselves to put him down. Neither had his father, nor had Zarkon lifted a finger to send aid when any number of similar princes had made themselves inconvenient in times past. “Small loss,” she continued, “the production of princes is a sop to the pride of the High Families, and no more.”

“Princes are expensive creatures,” Meksant agreed absently, nodding in satisfaction as a large and tricky component was settled properly into place. “Perhaps later on, the Emperor might consider doing away with the High Families entirely and simply install actual professionals to run their businesses in their place. They are close to becoming more trouble than they are worth. Then he wouldn't have to bother with that silly old custom, now would he?”

“They have their uses,” Haggar replied, thinking of possible candidates to replace her three defunct Druids; she had depended on those old High Lineages for the strong witches they produced. On the other hand, that number had fallen off in recent centuries. Perhaps it was time to reassess their utility. “In the meantime, we will continue in our present course. The Emperor requires the Lions, and we will use what we have on hand to capture them.”

“As we must, Lady Haggar,” Meksant said as another component slotted smoothly into its socket. “I'll do my part if you'll do yours, and we'll see whether or not we can settle this current muddle out without too much more collateral damage. I'd like a look at Voltron once the thing has been captured, if I may; as inefficient as gestalt engines are, it's a remarkable piece of work.”

Haggar had her own plans for the Lions, but Meksant's confidence was gratifying. “We shall see,” she allowed, and turned away to see to her own affairs. Perhaps a session in the scrying chamber would yield some useful information.

It was late, and the day had been very busy, and Lance was feeling the need for a little personal indulgence.

The dusty little solar system of Grashnur's Cloud had more or less filled up with returning Ghost Fleet ships, each of which, it seemed, had brought along prospective new members. Not the new Hoshinthra ships, thankfully, nor even the Talssenemai herself, although Zorjesca had promised to make sure that the results of the meeting were passed along. Even so, the Ghost Fleet's successes had tempted a large number of independent resistance groups out of obscurity, and the sheer variety of them had been remarkable. Lance had feasted his eyes on the rare and the strange, the horrible and the sublime, and had clasped manipulatory members in his own that had ranged from the creepy to the awesome. At times, the only thing that had allowed him to keep his cool had been Shiro's words of wisdom, whispered into his ear: _just think of how weird you look to them,_ he'd said, _you've only got one head, two arms, two legs, two eyes, two ears, and a single nose and mouth, after all, and you don't have a single feather, pseudopod, or scale!_

Lance had had to admit that Shiro was right. His personal favorite had been the Cae'Ruuhns, who had been sort of velvety and slightly catlike, with eyes like best-quality jade and voices like pastoral flutes, and whose short, plush fur had glowed with its own amber light. Mind you, the Yuttops had been fun to watch, having been eight feet tall, covered in brilliant yellow downy feathers, and had looked, acted, and sounded as though they had been Muppets in a past life. Lance felt that he would have paid to see _that_ show, although the chainmail bikinis that they had worn might have disqualified them for an appearance on _Sesame Street._ There had been the Guolppeks, sentient slime molds rooted in chunks of some sort of damp wood, that had produced glistening, neon-orange pseudo-heads and transparent air-manipulation chambers in order to speak in thin, whistling voices, and could carry on three conversations at the same time without getting confused. He had gotten along well with the Zrachi, who were only a little taller than Pidge and lizardlike, with brilliantly-patterned scales and a penchant for making bad puns whenever they could. The Huewhars, on the other hand, were as eerie as they were polite—taller even than Yantilee but impossibly thin and attenuated, wearing broad, dome-shaped hats and swathed in bone-colored robes and veils that showed only trios of blood-red eyes and pairs of spidery, intricately-jointed hands painted in dizzying patterns of black and white. Strangely, they smelled of apple blossoms and had voices like cellos, rich and resounding, and they moved with consummate grace. The Droheen had been sort of lumpy and ugly, with dorsal coats of long, barbed quills, but they had been cheerful and friendly and possessed a genius for mathematics that had impressed even Pidge. There had been more, from the balloon-like Fuooss that had hovered over the table during the meeting, changing color constantly and sending independent sense-organ clusters rotating in orbits around itself to keep track of who was speaking, to the Crolch that had preferred to lurk under the table, her hairy, dark-green eyestalk the only part visible, and her gravelly voice venturing cthonic suggestions from time to time.

Yantilee had observed them all with the famous Elikonian level-headed calm and had brought them to order in authoritative tones that no one could ignore, not even the Itrevolp, who didn't have ears. The subject of their discussion that day was the planet of Jeproba, which was next on the list for liberation, and was in desperate need of help. It was not a large world, but it and its solar system had huge lodes of metals and minerals that the Empire valued highly, and the native race had been enslaved some forty years ago to provide the labor for stripping them of everything of worth. The guest of honor at the meeting had been an escaped slave, a sort of pangolin-like person with chipped golden scales and angry dark eyes, who had pointed out the best places to strike. Despite the destruction of Jeproba's Garrison fleet at Bericonde, the system was heavily-guarded, with no less than three orbital forts; Clarence and Jasca, both attending via holoprojector, had provided information on those, and hammering out the details of the battle plan had taken up most of the day.

A very good day, Lance thought as he gathered up his bundle and headed back to the training deck; he and the others had had a quick sparring match to loosen themselves up after hours of sitting around and arguing tactics, and now he felt that he deserved a truly proper shower. Oh, his room had its own sanitary space complete with a shower cubicle, but it was not intended for the ablutionary luxury that he was set on indulging himself in. That cubicle had been designed for the single purpose of getting clean, and thus lacked scope. The shower room on the training deck had far greater possibilities, and even better, still had several bottles of Coran's hantic-extract-enhanced, all-in-one personal cleanser. Lance really liked that stuff. It made his skin feel good, made his hair glossy and manageable, and it smelled nice. More importantly at the moment, there was room to enjoy it. Most of the people that they'd rescued from the Gantars had transferred over to the _Quandary_ to either sign up or to arrange for transport home, and he had the whole room to himself. With a happy smile, he patted the music player that Hunk had put together for him, and stepped into the echoing, white-tiled room.

This device he set on the bank of sinks on the far wall, placed his bathrobe, slippers, and towels where they wouldn't get wet, and positioned the various cloths, brushes, and scrubbers essential for a proper wash.

“'Me' time,” he said with immense satisfaction, turning the water to precisely the right temperature and turning on the player.

He lathered himself thoroughly to the songs from his favorite bands, all picked up out of that snapshot of Earth's internet that Lizenne had captured on that long-ago visit, and for a little time the rest of the universe didn't matter. It was just him and the music and the luxury of getting really _clean._ He rinsed himself off with a feeling of accomplishment, rubbed his wet hair thoroughly in the smaller towel and dried himself off with the larger one, and then knotted it around his waist and reached for his favorite lotion. Just as he picked up the bottle, the opening strains of his favorite song, the true gem of his collection, slid like best silk out of the speaker. He grinned, turned up the volume, and crooned along with the great Luis Fonsi as one of his best pieces proved once and for all that he was out of his world.

“Are you sure?” Hunk asked; it had been a long day and now he wanted a snack. “It's the sort of thing that Nasty would steal, just to keep you on your toes.”

“Positive,” Pidge replied, her amber eyes scanning the training deck's floor. “Nasty knows better than to steal my mail, especially message chips from Ronok. I had to have dropped it here, because I know for a fact that it was in my pocket when we came in. Come on, where is it? Where is it? Aha!”

She darted over to one of the benches pushed up against one wall and snatched something small and flat from underneath, brandishing the little blue card triumphantly. “Got it! Ronok's current class has been studying some of the more volatile recipes lately, and he promised to send me a play-by-play of the explosions. Did you reload the nutrifabber with sylth grain yet, Hunk? I'm going to need popcorn.”

Hunk smiled. “Did that first thing this morning, since Coran and Modhri did a general restock at that pirate's haven nearby. They managed to get the whole shopping list done this time, so we're good for all sorts of things. There's even a little bit of thelwisk seed in the haul, by the way, and _yes,_ I did make sure to put it where the mice can't find it.”

“Thamst porridge,” Pidge said with happy anticipation. “That sounds really good right now for some reason. I'll want... huh. Do you hear something?”

Hunk looked around, and then pointed toward the shower room. “Sounds like Lance's music player. He must have forgotten it in there, or something. Come on, let's get it and give it back to him, or he'll tear the place apart looking for it.”

Pidge snorted. “Or accuse someone of stealing it. That's really annoying.”

“Hey, we'd miss it if he didn't wig out now and again,” Hunk said, moving off toward the shower room. “That's how we used to tell if he was coming down with something when we were kids. He'd go all quiet and mopey, and we'd feed him chicken soup and Grandma's special home-made cure-all until he perked up.”

“Huh,” Pidge said, following along. “What was in it?”

Hunk shrugged. “Dunno. It was a secret recipe. I'm pretty sure that it involved some of his Uncle Diego's best rotgut moonshine, though. Mom used the stuff to get stains out of the carpets.”

“I get it,” Pidge said, homing in on the source of the music. “It's the sort of remedy that you get well from, just so you don't have to take any more of it. I knew someone in high school whose aunt used to make her own home remedies, too, and she had a cousin who got busted twice for building meth labs... oh, wow.”

Both of them had to stop and stare. Lost in the music and capering about with surprising grace was Lance, lotion bottle held like a microphone and water droplets gemming his hair and body.  _ “... _ _Vi que tu mirada ya estaba llamándome. Muéstrame el camino que yo voy, oh...”_ he sang, completely unaware that he had an audience.

Pidge immediately whipped out her handcomp and began recording.

“That's a nice towel,” Hunk observed diplomatically in a low voice, unwilling to disturb a man in the throes of artistic expression, “I wonder if he embroidered all those little blue Lions himself?”

“Probably,” Pidge replied just as quietly. “Twenty cookies says that he loses it by the end of the song.”

“That's a pretty good knot,” Hunk said after a moment's study. “You're on.”

At that moment a few levels up, Shiro paused in the act of raiding a fridge. There had been refreshments at the meeting, enough to negate the need for an actual dinner, but he and Keith had eaten lightly and were feeling peckish. A new urgency had invaded his mind, and he was having a hard time quantifying it.

Keith looked up from putting the finishing touches on a sandwich to see Shiro's perplexed expression. “Are you okay?”

Shiro blinked and shook his head, putting the tub of leftover paslen back onto its shelf and straightening up. “I'm fine. I just got a hunch, is all. Something's going on back down on the training deck that we should see.”

Keith frowned. “That's all?”

“That's all. Nothing bad is happening, but we really should go down and have a look.” Shiro shrugged and gave his teammate a slightly embarrassed smile. “Want to come and find out what that is?”

Keith wrapped his sandwich in a napkin with a nod. “Sure.”

A short time later, they were following the sound of music toward the shower room, and found Hunk and Pidge lurking behind the doorframe. Keith frowned at Pidge's handcomp and said, “Hey, guys, what's--”

“ _Shh!”_ Hunk hissed, not looking around. “Don't disturb him!”

Shiro and Keith shared a puzzled glance, and then had a look through the door. Prancing magnificently in time to the music and singing lustily along with the recording was the blue Paladin, fully engaged in his performance.

Shiro swallowed hard, his eyes following the young man's superb muscular definition without his conscious bidding. The hunting leathers had been one thing, but this was quite another. “Well, the strength training's certainly paid off.”

“Yeah,” Keith said weakly, struggling to control some unexpected emotions and blushing hotly under the force of them. He wasn't alone, he noticed; Shiro was looking a little pink across the cheekbones as well. “Wow.”

“ _Despacito,”_ Lance sang hungrily, _“Quiero respirar tu cuello despacito...”_

A few moments later, Allura's voice spoke up behind them, sounding puzzled. “There you are! What's happening? I had the strangest feeling... oh, my!”

Allura stared. She couldn't help herself. Ever since they had met, she had seen Lance as gawky and awkward, and not particularly attractive by her own people's standards. She had never seen him in a truly uninhibited moment, she realized, other than when he'd gotten drunk, and no one looks their best when inebriated. Something inside her responded powerfully to the presence of the young, strong, and very healthy blue Paladin, and it wasn't just the side effects of the Lion-bond.

“Pretty, isn't he?” Hunk said, nudging her in the ribs.

She gulped, blinked, knew that she was blushing hard, and responded with an expression that she had heard from one of her aunts. “He... he has a very well-turned ankle.”

Pidge gave her a funny look. “Seriously? With everything else that's on display, that's what you take away from this?”

Allura gave her an embarrassed smile. “Not precisely. The implication of that statement is that everything above the ankle is superior... and... oh, my... there is quite a lot above the ankle, isn't there?”

“Yeah, he's all leg,” Hunk said happily. “Always has been.”

“ _Sabes que tu corazón conmigo te hace bom, bom!”_ Lance sang, shaking his hips at the appropriate moments, giving them a fine view of those legs, plus a little extra. _“Sabes que esa beba está buscando de mi bom, bom!”_

“Callipygian,” Hunk said with relish. “Yeah, Lance, make those Lions fly.”

“What does 'callipygian' mean?” Allura asked.

Shiro blushed harder. “It's from the ancient Greek, and means having a... a nice rear end.”

Allura giggled. “He certainly does. I honestly hadn't noticed. I didn't know that he could dance. Or sing.”

Hunk smirked. “Yeah. He'll tell you any day that I dance better than he does, but he's got a good voice. He used to get pressured into singing at family events, birthdays especially, and he's got a  _big_ family. It wasn't until he started demanding a cut of the presents that he got some free time again. Carlos nearly had a personality failure when Lance told his mom that if she wanted him to sing, then he got that new game system that Carlos had been begging for for months. After that, he was home free.”

Shiro smiled. “Did Lance get the game system?”

“Nope. Carlos liked being sung at about as much as he liked finding garden slugs in his underwear, but he was red-hot where it came to video games,” Hunk replied. “Lance's Aunt Lucia opted for the route of less temper tantrums, and I don't blame her. Carlos could scream the house down.”

“Carlos sounds difficult to live with,” Allura observed.

“He's always been a problem kid,” Hunk sighed, remembering a few of his own scrapes with the designated black sheep of Lance's large and rambling family. “You're drooling, Pidge.”

“Shut up,” Pidge replied, wiping at her chin with one sleeve, not taking her eyes off of Lance for a second. “Recording, here.”

Unaware of this discussion, Lance continued, soaring on wings of melody and dancing on raw firmament, his imagination granting him the adulation of the cosmos. It came as something of a shock when he had crooned the final, aching word, and real applause and a few wolf whistles brought him back to stark reality. In later years, when describing the incident to crowds of giggling, red-cheeked youngsters, he would not be afraid to admit that he had screamed like a little girl. For now, he gargled, spluttered, and gabbled in horror.  _“Aaaaaaaaaagh!_ What the... where did... why are...  _what the heck, guys?!”_

“That was very nice, Lance,” Allura said sweetly, “do keep it up, it's doing wonders for your coordination.”

Helplessly, he had to accept the accolade. “Thanks... I think? Um... Hunk's better than I am... _Holy crow! Pidge, did you record all of that?”_

“Yup!” Pidge said with an evil grin, waggling her handcomp at him. “The gem of my blackmail collection. I'm gonna call it _'Prancy Lance Without No Pants'.”_

Lance did not take that well. “Aagh! No you're not! Gimme that!”

Pidge cackled and ducked under his grab, speeding away as fast as her legs could carry her. Squawking in protest, Lance charged after her, his feet slapping damply on the decking.

“Wait! Lance! You forgot your bathrobe!” Hunk called after them, heading over to retrieve the robe from the sinks, and then gave it an interested look. “Huh. He's embroidered his robe, too.”

Keith hummed thoughtfully, examining the rather elegant stitchery. “I wonder if I can get him to put Red on mine?”

Shiro snorted a laugh. “Maybe, after he's calmed down. Come on, we can't have him running around mostly naked, he'll scare the mice. Did you see where they went, Allura?”

“Toward the Invisible Maze room,” Allura replied. “Modhri needed to run a routine check on the force-screen generators earlier. Don't worry, it's disabled.”

“Not if Pidge wakes it up again,” Keith said, and headed for the door.

“ _Scabolsa kaks-plogarth_ ing _knirx_ of a _spleth_ ing _bolsucht,”_ Nasty swore as he removed the casing from one of the larger junction boxes. “You had to have stashed it in here, I _saw_ you wiggling it through the vent. I _will_ have that last napkin ring if I have to go through every one of these in the Castle! I swear, if we ever stumble across more of those mice, I'm going to smuggle a breeding group home as my revenge for banishing me. All Unilu on the Homeworld will know the horror of my wrath, so help me, Lawsy... aha! Got it—whoops!”

Nasty had to clutch at his stepladder as Pidge loped past, whooping with evil glee, closely followed by Lance, who was shouting threats and insults and clutching at his towel to keep it from flying away. Nasty smiled fondly and leaned against the wall to watch, flipping his screwdriver idly in one hand. “Star pupil,” he said proudly.

“Which one?” Keith panted behind him, and Nasty looked around to see the rest of the team as well.

“Oh, both,” the Unilu said happily, reattaching the casing, the silver napkin ring glinting from one slim wrist like a bracelet. “Back home, bathtime blackmail video-making is a spectator sport, especially after they made it legal for the record-ees to smack the record-ers with a folding chair if they could catch them.”

“Let me guess,” Shiro said, watching Lance chasing Pidge around in circles on the far side of the maze room, “folding chairs sell really well where you come from.”

“They're everywhere,” Nasty said cheerfully. “Anywhere you've got a fully-equipped bathroom, the folding chairs can't be too far away. Not so much here, but Kings don't go in much for cheap seating. All the same, it's almost like being home, watching that. I'm gonna miss you guys when I have to leave.”

“Huh,” Keith said, tallying up the days since Nasty had joined them in his head. “Actually, shouldn't you have gone back to the _Quandary_ by now?”

“Technically, yes,” Nasty grinned, twirling the napkin ring around his finger. “But that was before I found the loophole.”

Pidge's sneakers squealed on the decking, and she abandoned her fun to trot right back over to where the others were standing, Lance trailing after her in confusion.  _“What_ loophole?” she demanded. “I didn't leave you any loopholes in that contract!”

“Yes you did!” Nasty gloated, waving a finger under her nose. “I had to look real hard for it, I'll give you that, but there it was, standing there in plain sight with its pants down.”

She glared at him. “Explain.”

Nasty chortled. “That contract, and it was a pretty good one for a first try, said that I had to spend a total of one month on this floating madhouse, teaching you all of my hard-won secrets, right? You never said  _whose_ months.”

“What?” she squeaked in sudden chagrin.

“Yes!” Nasty declared triumphantly. “By the Galran Standard Calendar, I've been here overtime, even with the vacations—unpaid vacations, mark you! But, by the _Ulomnian_ Calendar, I've still got two weeks. So, there.”

Pidge buried her face in her hands.  _“Aagh!_ How could I have missed that?”

Keith gave Nasty a suspicious look. “Should I be throwing him out of an airlock, Pidge?”

Pidge sighed and shook her head. “No, no, we're playing by Unilu rules, and he's right. He's culturally required to twist any contract he signs to his own benefit.”

Allura cocked them both a puzzled look. “Shouldn't he be trying to shorten his term, then?”

Nasty made a rude noise. “Are you nuts? I haven't found all the silverware yet! She wasn't kidding about making it a challenge, which I can respect.”

“It's true,” Pidge informed them. “If he finds all of the silverware, he not only wins the bet, but he gets to keep the whole set--”

“And it's a really nice set,” Nasty interjected, “Altean-made, too, which makes it really valuable. I could retire rich off of this, if I can find the right buyer.”

“--So we're stuck with him until he finds all the pieces, his time by Ulomnian standards runs out, he gets bored, or Tilla eats him,” Pidge finished.

Tilla had indeed come ambling up the hall, complete with mousy passengers, and she paused with an amused rumble. Nasty waved a pair of hands at her. “Oh, come on, she wouldn't do that,” he protested. “I mean, look at her, standing there as sweet as she can be, with the mice on her back... and they've... they've got salt and plip-spice shakers...  _Oh, crud!”_

“GRONK!” said Tilla, and charged, forcing everyone else to flatten themselves against the walls as she took a turn chasing Nasty around the maze room a few times, snapping playfully at his bandanna while the mice squeaked encouragement.

Shiro burst out into helpless laughter at these antics. Pidge grinned and said, “I wonder how long it'll take him to realize that those shakers are part of the set?”

“ _Hey!”_ the Unilu yelled. _“Give me those!”_

“Not too long,” Allura said, putting her back to the wall as the dragon thundered by again, this time with Nasty in hot pursuit, screaming, _“Come back here!”_ as he tried to catch her tail. “Observant, isn't he?”

“Usually,” Pidge said. “Situational awareness is—hey!”

Lance had plucked the handcomp out of her grasp and took off down the hall, using his long legs to his best advantage. Pidge sped after him, yelling her own stock of threats and insults at the top of her voice. Shiro slumped against the wall, howling with laughter and enjoying himself too much to stop.

“They're back, your Highness,” Lieutenant Tilwass said, “and they've got what they were sent to get.”

Lotor looked up from his screen, where he had been trying to find any references as to what that gigantic, red-scaled monster had been. So far, all he had found were a handful of rather vague old legends and folklore, a few images and vids taken from long distances away, and a good deal of wild speculation. In summary, the best way to deal with such a beast was to run away as fast as the ship's engines could be pushed, and to hope like hell that it wasn't hungry enough to chase you. Lotor had lost three destroyers and nearly his own flagship before the monster had given up on him, and he was fairly sure that the short, blurry video he'd found of one of those things taking a Weblum apart would haunt his dreams for a while. Even Imperial warships preferred to leave Weblums alone. It was a rather disturbing line of study, and led to dark speculations as to the true powers of the Paladins and their Rogue Witch; they had clearly summoned the creature, and he did not want that happening again anytime soon. Particularly not while a significant percentage of his most effective ships were out of action.

“Very good, Tilwass,” he said, putting aside his files and standing up. “Let us go and explain to our guests what their new employment entails. In retrospect, we should have done this before we left Nelargo.”

Tilwass puffed a black laugh. “Lady Inzera wouldn't have liked it, sir. She's awful possessive of her techs, and even the Ghamparva have to come to her for tune-ups and repairs. The monopoly on those ships runs both ways.”

Lotor's lips twisted in a wry smirk. “And the fact that she was able to wring that concession out of the Ghamparva is testament to her skill... and her ruthlessness. I will take care to see to it that she does not catch us. Has anything else of note happened while I was busy?”

Tilwass bared his teeth in a worried grimace as they entered the lift. “Yeah, and it's not good news. It's been put about to the Shipyards and Garrisons that you're not to be allowed to commandeer any more ships, and your Imperial dad is letting it stand. Doesn't surprise me, really, considering how many we've gone through already. If we need to fill out the ranks again, you'll have to get them the old-fashioned way.”

“Duels to the death with their commanders,” Lotor sighed, and then smiled. “That shouldn't be difficult out here. Father does not waste his best officers on the outer worlds, and it's been a long time since I've had a proper fight. We'll manage, Lieutenant.”

“No argument there, Sir,” Tilwass said as the lift doors opened again, letting them out into the fighter bays.

A few minutes' brisk walk brought them to one of the middling-sized landers, where a small group of frightened-looking men in engineer's coveralls were being herded down the ramp by a troop of Sentries. Hands bound, Lotor noticed.

“They wouldn't come willingly?” he asked.

“No, my Lord,” the lander's co-pilot said with a salute. “They're more afraid of Lady Ghurap'Han than they are of us, or of you, for that matter. Just be glad that we didn't have to stun them. She's forbidden them to help you in any way, and they take her orders seriously.”

Lotor turned to face his captives. Ten of them, mature and highly skilled in their craft to judge by the badges of rank sewn onto their sleeves, which showed good sense on the part of his two agents; looking after three ships each shouldn't be beyond their abilities. “Has she, now?” he asked them. “And how will she enforce that order, now that you are well away from the Shipyard?”

The oldest of them vented a soft sigh. “She's laid a hex into each of us. She does that to everyone who knows how to service Ghamparva craft. If we do not obey her, we die. You have made a bad enemy and have taken a great risk, and for nothing. That is all I can tell you.”

Lotor cocked him a calculating look. “And if I have the hexes removed?”

Wordlessly, the man shrugged, although his expression indicated that it might be worth a try.

Lotor hummed thoughtfully. “Tilwass, don't we have a woman of skill on one of the ships?”

“Yessir,” Tilwass replied, sparing a pitying look for the kidnapped engineers. “Sergeant Hokora, serving on the light cruiser _Artash._ Bad-tempered, but she can lift and lay hexes better than many. She's rumored to be Druid-grade, and she's threatened to have the _hapleks_ off of the man who whispers a word of it outside of her ship. Her men don't argue with her.”

Lotor nodded. “Very good. Have her brought over to take a look at these gentlemen. I need them free of that termagant's will and added to the fighter-deck's roster as soon as possible. I will not let some spiteful old woman get between us and victory; I have had enough and more than enough of that from Haggar.”

As he turned to leave, he saw the first hints of hope blooming in the engineers' faces. Only in the youngest of them, though, and the older ones either looked suspicious or neutral. Once he and Tilwass were out of earshot, he murmured, “Tell Hokora to alter their hexes, rather than remove them. Have her bind them to my command; I don't want them trying to escape before they've taught my own engineers everything that they know.”

“Yessir,” Tilwass said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know, Lance singing Despacito is about as original as the current rash of Disney live action movies. *ducks behind blast shield to avoid fire from angry Disney fans* But it was great fun for us, and WE DO WHAT WE WANT. 
> 
> Also? I really want Lance's towel. Pidge owes Hunk twenty cookies now.
> 
> Please take the time to leave a comment/kudos if you enjoyed yourself. Even if it's just to yell at me about throwing shade at the live action Disney movie thing. ^_^ Hearing from readers gives us the strength to continue even when the demons called Depression and Real Life chew on our ankles.


	4. Deus Ex Machina

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello happy people!!! Sorry this is late (again) but this week has been insane. BUT! Here is a chapter for you to enjoy! *runs off screaming*

Chapter 4: Deus ex Machina

Shiro gripped the control beams in his hands, settling himself stubbornly into the seat and willing the cockpit to come to glimmering life around him, only to feel crushing disappointment when the screens remained blank. “Please?” he muttered, knowing that he was begging and not giving a damn.

_Not yet,_ was the unspoken answer, although he felt a hint of apology in the Lion's silence. He was pushing it, he knew, and someone would probably scold him for it shortly. He was almost back at full strength now—almost, but not quite. Flying a Lion was no small job even for a person at the peak of health and strength, and despite being months ahead of where he would be if his team hadn't been speeding his recovery, he wasn't quite there yet. Shiro simply did not have the reserves of dense muscle mass and energy built up yet, and if he had a big vision while flying, it could incapacitate him. Oh, Black could sustain him by feeding him pure raw Quintessence from his own core, but that was very dangerous. Speaking with the Hoshinthra had cemented the risks associated with Quintessence addiction in his mind, which had probably been the whole point. The Mystics, he felt, made a habit of working to more than one purpose. With a long sigh, he heaved himself out of the chair and headed back down the ramp to where Keith was waiting for him.

“No, huh?” Keith asked sympathetically.

“Not yet,” Shiro replied with a wistful look up at the huge dark cephalon. “I hate this part.”

Keith smiled and patted his friend on the shoulder. “You should have seen us when we were recovering from that big hex. Modhri had to ride herd on us all the time, and Zaianne practically had to sit on Allura to keep her off of the pilot's platform.”

“And the dragons had their hands full with Lizenne, I'll bet,” Shiro said as they headed back toward the lifts.

Keith shook his head. “Not really. Stopping that hex nearly killed her, and she didn't start to get really pushy about it until almost the end. There's that 'almost' again.”

Shiro vented a faint, amused breath. “Yup. I feel bad about sitting on my butt, is all. I want to help. I  _need_ to help, and I can't.”

Keith cast him a sidelong look. “And here's the part where I tell you that you're helping by just being here, right? That's the way it works in the vids.”

Shiro chuckled. “Yes, and then I find an excuse to go and do something brave, vital, and stupid, with a fifty percent chance of dying nobly—or at least taking a lot of damage while I'm at it. No thanks. That sort of thing would not only put me out of action for another year, but Zaianne would rip a strip out of me. She takes her 'Mom' duties seriously.”

Keith snickered. “I know. She's been mothering you a little?”

Shiro sighed, thinking back on the last training session she'd put him through; her demeanor had been half drill sergeant, half soccer mom, and he had been near exhaustion when she had let him go. “In her own unique way. It's doing me good.”

Keith nodded, stepping into the lift and pushing the button that would take them up to the command deck. “Me, too. You're doing fine, she says, and Kolivan's thinking about taking you along for part of his share of the battle. You might not be up to much fighting yet, but you can help coordinate things, and any hunch you get will be appreciated. If he decides against it, Yantilee's happy to have you aboard anytime, and for the same reason. So would Coran.”

Shiro smiled. “That would be good. Every little bit helps, hmm?”

“Yeah,” Keith glanced at him. “Hunk says that no matter what, you need to stop by the kitchen and grab one of those packets of energy bars that he and Modhri made up. If you get a big hunch, you'll need them.”

“For my lunchbox, right,” Shiro said, recalling what he'd been told about the necessity of having snacks on hand at all times. “Have they started supplying the Blades with them as well? I don't want them stealing my stash.”

Keith snorted. Word of Modhri's superior snack bars had spread. “They're sort of limited-edition right now—the envirodeck can only produce so much of the ingredients, but you're allowed to smack their knuckles if you see them going for your food. It's cool, Shiro. Mom says that this is brotherly behavior, and a little roughhousing is okay.”

The lift chimed and the doors opened, and Shiro considered that last statement in thoughtful silence as they made their way to the bridge. “They've really become part of the family, haven't they? We've come a long way since the first time we met them.”

Keith rubbed at one shoulder, remembering how angry and suspicious the Blades had been when they'd first met, and the grueling challenge that they had set him. “Yeah. I'm not going to complain, though. It's good to have them around, fighting on our side.”

There was more to it than that, Shiro was aware. By all rights and if things had been different, Keith—Khaeth—would have had as many as eight brothers, and a sister to boss him and the others around. At least a dozen uncles, too, and a scattering of fearsome aunts, and potentially innumerable cousins. A Human might be a little overwhelmed by such a situation, but Galra found it right and proper; indeed, half of Keith's very substance demanded it. It gave Shiro a new depth of understanding of just how lonely the boy must have been after he had lost his father and uncle. Wordlessly, he draped an arm over Keith's shoulders, and felt his hand being clasped in return.

The bridge doors hissed open, revealing Coran seated at his console, Allura on the pilot's dais, and Zaianne lounging in one of the defense-drone stations. Tilla was also there, sitting by the door, and she sniffed at Shiro's shoulder and gave him what could only be called a Look. It was so similar to the Looks that his own mother had given him every time that she suspected that he'd been naughty that it startled a smile out of him, and he patted her nose in apology.

“Yeah, I know, sorry,” he said contritely, running his hand over the fine scales around her nostrils. “Black won't let me fly yet, but I had to try.”

Tilla grunted noncommittally and turned her head back toward the screens, where a familiar solar system hung in the star-washed darkness of space. He and Keith made their way forward to study the image. Jeproba was another binary system, those being fairly common in this end of space. Both stars seemed to be more or less the same size and fairly stable, if a little smaller and yellower than Earth's own star. And crowded. The inner orbits were full of a chunky tangle of dwarf planets and asteroids, with an enormous gas giant with storm bands in an improbable mix of blue, green, white, yellow, and hot pink drifted in splendid isolation out beyond them. Orbiting that polychrome monster was a small, irregular-looking world that was surprisingly Earthlike.

“Is that Jeproba?” Keith asked, pointing at that homelike little sphere.

“Yes, actually,” Coran said. “Good eye, there, although Lance wants to relabel the gas giant 'Tutti-Frutti' for some reason. Silly idea, that. Not only does it have a perfectly good name already, but nobody wants to orbit a planet named after a Spregorian fad for nose-hair styling. It's been out of fashion for years, anyway. I checked.”

Keith rolled his eyes. “Where we come from, it's an ice-cream flavor. It's pink, and usually has a lot of fruit and candy mixed in.”

Coran waved a hand airily. “So are the Spregorians. Very fond of sweets, but not big on personal hygiene. Odd how things work out like that, eh? It'd be a funny old universe if everything made sense.”

Allura giggled at the suspicious look Keith shot him, and smiled at Shiro. “We received a message from Kolivan just before you came up,” she told him. “He would like to have you riding along aboard Jasca during the liberation attempt, if you would like. That way, if you should have a Vision, you will best be able to inform the rest of us from there. She'll be right at the heart of the Fleet's communications, and can direct any information to where it needs to be far faster than a flesh-and-blood comm operator. I'm a little envious of that offer myself—it seems that only a privileged few are allowed to serve aboard that station, to hear the Blades complaining about it!”

“She and Tzairona have my colleagues properly charmed,” Zaianne chuckled, stretching out her long legs comfortably. “Some of my people's most fondly-held legends involve wondrous ships with their own guardian spirits. Countless little girls and boys have played at being fearless heroes aboard such craft as the _Ocuirion Vasshos,_ the _Nambarka,_ or even the great _Ekuliar Kvai Granch,_ whose mad Captain sailed down those two Great Rivers that neither god nor demon could traverse, and did so twice before she ran the boat aground in a tree upon a mountaintop in the center of a desert. It's said that she patched the hull with tree sap and her own felted hair, took a few desert tribesmen for fresh crew, and then took the ship out into the Sea of Stars. She's supposed to drop by the Core Worlds every fifty years or so to pick up a few more adventurous young people, but the _Ekuliar_ hasn't been seen in centuries.”

Keith and Shiro stared at her for a long moment. “So...” Keith said slowly, “Jasca and Clarence are letting their guys live the dream. Wow. I'm going to want to hear those stories sometime.”

“Me, too,” Shiro said.

She winked at them. “Invite me to one of your pajama parties, and we'll make it a night of wild tales. Would you like to take Kolivan up on his offer, my son?”

Shiro's backbone tingled slightly at the prospect of coming into contact with Tzairona again, but nodded. “That may be the best use of my skills, assuming they cooperate this time. I... I don't actually have any real control over them yet.”

Allura shrugged. “According to my research, no true Oracle ever gains full control. It's much like watching for pictures in the clouds, it seems. Sometimes the sky will be full of perfect images, and sometimes it's all just water vapor at a great height. There might be no clouds at all, or you might get rained on. Or struck by lightning.”

Shiro smiled. “That's a pretty good way of putting it, actually. Just have him tell us when he's ready, and I'll be right over.”

“Say hi to everyone for me,” Keith said, and then turned to study the screen. “So, will there be any changes in the plans?”

“Inevitably, but nothing major just yet,” Coran said, tapping in a sequence that highlighted the various forts and stations on the screens. “So far, there's no sign that the local garrison has replaced the fleet that we dealt with back at Bericonde—warships don't grow on hipple-bushes, you know—but they're still fairly heavily fortified at key points. Here, look at this one; almost as big as Clarence, and possibly just as well-armed.”

“But nothing like as mobile,” Keith said thoughtfully. “Yeah, we discussed that one at the meeting. Pidge wants to take that station down and possibly over first, and then fly interference while the _Quandary_ deals with that other fort over... over there. Tchak sure likes the idea of having a few of those on our side.”

Shiro nodded. “I can agree with that. If we can take down the big targets before...” he paused, aware of a flickering at the back of his mind that was gone before he could grasp it. Only a few sensations remained, and he blinked, shook his head, and clenched his fists reflexively.

Seeing the sudden tension in him, Keith frowned in concern. “Another hunch?”

“Just a little one,” Shiro said, pulling in a long, calming breath and letting it go. “I was flying the Lion in battle, and not anytime soon. That's all. That's all, but... but it _felt_ like Robeast.”

Keith nodded understandingly. Fighting a Robeast was very different from fighting warships. “Haggar's rebuilding, then. Crud. We really need to do something about that witch.”

“We're working on it,” Allura said firmly. “This is just another step closer to us doing just that.”

“Lunch box, Shiro,” Hunk said, pushing the packet firmly into Shiro's gauntleted hands. “Never leave home without it.”

Shiro wasn't going to argue, and took the box gratefully; his armor was still a bit loose in spots and the packet smelled of Zampedran granola bars. Even Pidge was willing to admit that those were _almost_ as good as Ronok's mettic-paste cookies. “Thanks. Has everyone else stocked up?”

“Oh, yeah, and doubled up.” Hunk adjusted the fit of his helmet and patted a similar packet that he'd affixed to his armor's belt. “We might be seeing Lotor again if Doodlebug didn't eat him, and if he's still got some of those Ghamparva ships, we're going to need the extras.”

Shiro hummed thoughtfully. “It occurs to me that you've all been focusing on using your own powers more than you've been exploring the capabilities of the Lions. Have there been any new secrets uncovered?”

Hunk paused a moment, thinking hard about that before waggling a hand uncertainly. “Sort of? I've gotten hints from mine that Voltron's got more to give, but it's mostly bigger guns and faster moves. All the fancy stuff comes from us. Remember what the Mystics said, chief, about _us_ being Voltron, and the Lions are sort of... well, just sort of extensions of us now? It's starting to make more and more sense the longer that I think about it.”

Shiro frowned as he considered his teammate's words, and wasn't sure he liked where they were going. “You may be onto something, and we might want to talk about that as a group sometime later. I think that Coran may have mentioned something about that a while ago. Some of the previous teams—yes, Vennex?”

Modhri's nephew had trotted up with a notescreen in one hand. The ex-soldier had been put to work running errands lately, work that he performed so efficiently that he was starting to become indispensable. He raised a hand in a sort of salute, a habitual gesture that had been trained into him by a long series of drill sergeants. “The shuttle's here, sir,” he said respectfully, “and the pilot's told me to tell you to get down to the hangar deck as quick as you can. Things are starting to move already.”

“I'll be right there,” Shiro said, and patted Hunk on the shoulder. “Good luck out there.”

Hunk returned the gesture. “You, too. By the way, I made Allura promise to try to talk Black into letting you fly around a little with him after we're done with this raid, just as a warm-up kind of thing.”

Shiro grinned at him. “Thanks.”

“Not a problem, Shiro. Let's get going. We've got a world to save.”

That was good enough for both of them, and they took off at a trot for their respective lifts. Shiro tried not to envy Hunk, but it was hard going, and it was with some relief that he saw the masked and armored Blade waving at him from one of their sleek little fighters the moment that he stepped out onto the hangar deck.

“Everybody's in position?” he asked when he arrived at the fighter's hatch.

“Almost,” the Blade replied in a woman's voice, and one that he didn't recognize. “Strap in. Clarence says that a replacement Imperial fleet is on its way here, and the Talssenemai wants first crack at them.”

Shiro threw himself into the copilot's seat and let the crash harness bind him in securely. “Fine with me,” he replied, although not without a slight shudder. “Have any of the new Hoshinthra Warleaders shown up yet?”

“No sign of them yet,” the Blade replied, steering the fighter out of the Castle's bay doors and into open space. “The Talssenemai has hinted that her descendants are positioning themselves, but not in accordance with any plan of ours. We have no idea of what they're doing, or where.”

Shiro snorted in grim amusement. “That sounds about right. It's something to lose sleep over, I'm guessing.”

The Blade cocked him an enigmatic glance as she steered them around an asteroid and into the presence of Jasca's bicone-shaped hull. “You have no idea.”

They entered Jasca's small shuttle bay with ease and grace, and Shiro allowed himself to be escorted up to the bridge. It was smaller than he was used to seeing in Galra ships, although by no means claustrophobic, and his nerves eased when he felt the tell-tale signature of Hunk and Pidge humming through the very substance of the walls; if he closed his eyes and concentrated, he felt, the whole place would be glowing with their golden-green energies. The screens were glowing quite brightly enough here on the physical plane, as was the station's AI—Jasca's holographic avatar stood tall and proud on the deck beside her bridge crew, her long fluffy tail twitching like a cat's. She looked around at their arrival, and flashed both Paladin and Blade a fierce but welcoming smile.

“ _Aha!”_ she said cheerfully. _“There you are. All right, Clarence, we've got him on deck. I'm sending out the roll call.”_

“ _Heard and acknowledged, Jasca,”_ Clarence's tinny tenor replied promptly. _“We're ready. All Blade units are in place.”_

Yantilee's voice was heard next. _“My lot's ready. Paladins?”_

“ _Positioned and ready,”_ Allura's voice came through strong and clear.

“Chimera _ready,”_ Modhri chimed in.

“ _Castle's ready as well,”_ Coran added.

“ _Estimated time of arrival of that replacement fleet is approximately ten minutes by the Imperial standard clock,”_ Clarence reported.

“ _We will use that time well,”_ Kolivan's deep voice declared. _“Your mark or mine, Admiral?”_

Yantilee made an odd chuffing sound. _“We've both had a turn. Shiro, your mark.”_

Shiro drew in a surprised breath, but had no time to question it. He could feel the moments of destiny approaching, each one bearing a different sort of victory. Somehow—he had no idea of _exactly_ how he did it, but he focused in on the one that looked right. Seconds sleeted by like snowflakes until the one perfect moment was close enough to touch...

“ _NOW!”_ he shouted, and all across the solar system, ships leaped into furious action.

The Ghost Fleet was simply and suddenly  _there_ as over a hundred mismatched corsairs dropped their invisibility fields, opening fire upon their targets with neither challenge nor warning; they all had learned the hard way that Galra never surrendered without a fight, even in the face of impossible odds. Shiro heard Jasca laugh as she blocked the distress beacons and shut down the relay stations, and his breath hitched as the Lions joined forces with Clarence to engage the main orbital fort. He listened to the comm chatter and heard his team shouting advice back and forth between them and their companion ships; the orbits were thick with blazing bolts from thousands of ion cannons and the fighting craft seemed to dance as they avoided or deflected the enemy fire. Once again, Shiro felt left behind, even though Jasca was right in the thick of it all, her shields thrumming like cello strings as cannon blasts glanced off of them, her own guns making the decking quiver every time they spoke. Voltron formed up with a smooth ease that hurt his heart with its blaze of aetheric glory, and he felt sweat start to trickle down his back in an echo of his team's exertions. His bond with them was strong, and he had no choice but to focus on it to the exclusion of all else. The people around him seemed to fade into shadows along with the room itself; nothing existed but the view before him and the sensations streaming through his consciousness. He could feel it each and every time a shot was fired, his very bones hummed in harmony with the powerful drives, and communication channels flashed and glittered through his blood in bright streams. He stared so deeply into the battle before him that his eyes lost focus, seeing double—no, triple... or was he?

Where was he?

He was standing on an infinite twilight plain, sounds liquid and distant, breath like the memory of ice, the air charged as though a major electrical storm was about to break. He could still see the battle from here, but every craft was limned in light in a hundred thousand colors. He could see every living thing and the life forces in the ships themselves, and the planets below blazing like arc lamps. Even their shadows glowed like after-images, and shifted like ripples in a pool. So many of them, all interacting in an infinite complexity, they dazzled his eyes and confused him.

Someone nudged him in the ribs with an elbow, and he smelled cold, stale storeroom air and the hard tang of alcohol. Shiro blinked, shook sweat out of his eyes, and stared at a fallen soldier who saluted him with his silver flask and pointed at something behind him. Shiro smelled burnt insulation and thunderstorm, and turned to behold Tzairona, who was watching the battle with the air of a seasoned troublemaker. She lifted her head proudly, flames flickering through the small hole in her breastplate, and she gave him a wild smile that he had seen many times before. Many times, and on the face of her many-times-great-grandniece when she had been teaching him to fight Druids.

_Look here,_ she told him, one long finger following a darting fighter, describing the ripples that it made in space.  _Ignore the ones behind it, those aren't important right now. Focus a few steps ahead. See how they branch? Find the strong branches and follow them._

“How?” Shiro whispered.

Zerod grinned at him. _Do what you told that little brother of yours to do. Calm down, and don't let it all scare you._

Shiro stared at the impossible tangle of light and darkness, unsure of where to begin. Still, the advice he had received was good. “Patience yields focus,” he whispered, and his eyes lifted to the polychrome blare of the Lions—the rose-purple heart of Voltron in particular. “Help me.”

Allura and the others gasped and yelped in surprise when they felt Shiro's talent bloom like a rose, and again when the Lions roared as one. After that, they had no time to think. Shiro was shouting instructions, a rapid-fire stream of information that was only intelligible to them because they could read him through the Lion-bond. Hunk reached out to steady him through that link, and Allura fed him strength. Lance kept his body stable, Keith burned away stress toxins, and Pidge improved the flow of his thoughts. All of them flew and fought on the physical plane as though on autopilot, at one with the Lions while they kept the wild power of their leader from consuming him utterly. He guided them through the link in return, and even the sudden appearance of a whole new battlefleet could not faze them. Nor did the corresponding appearance of the _Night Terror,_ although her battle-scream caused chaos aplenty among the rest.

Her, they worked around, rather than with; she was too wild, too old, too predatory, and too insane for any but her own kind to command, and she had her own ways to predict the near future. To Shiro's inner eyes, she was more like the legendary Wild Hunt than anything else, or perhaps the _Hyakki Yakou_ ; unstoppable, uncontrollable, and instantly deadly. The Ghost Fleet, on the other hand, was far more amenable to good advice and acted where appropriate, listening in growing awe to the man's voice that was close to godlike in its absolute surety, growing reassuringly hoarse from continual speech. The only person who could not hear those words was Shiro himself. He was too deep in his vision to notice the words that streamed out of him like ticker tape. All he could do was try to understand what he saw, and what he saw was _everything._ He could feel the others helping him to filter the pure golden threads of the future from a vast tangle of loose probability, and kept on unraveling it until the goal was achieved. Mind blazing with light, Shiro sagged to his knees, lungs heaving. Walls and decking and other living beings sifted themselves out of the infinity around him. He hurt all over, his lungs and throat were on fire even as his skin seemed to be freezing, and he smelled his own sweat thick in his nostrils.

“ _Get some fluids into him now!”_ someone was shouting, and there was a tug at his waist; a moment later, a straw was forced between his chattering teeth and a thin stream of liquid across his tongue triggered a desperate desire for more. 

“ _That was a big one,”_ the voice continued tensely as he drank, a voice he had heard somewhere before. _“Tzai used to have those trances sometimes, and while our superiors just loved them, they could leave her flat on her back for days. That was one of the reasons why she preferred to stay away from the big battles. She and Commander Marmora used to fight about it all the time. Give him another drink packet, and then let him have the snacks. His biorhythms are all over the place!”_

Shiro accepted the second packet with gratitude, drank it dry, and attacked with gusto the granola bar that someone handed him. His belly felt like a black hole had taken up residence in the pit of his stomach, and it was going to take a lot of matter and energy to shift it.

“ _Groshan, you give that back,”_ the increasingly familiar voice snapped sharply. _“I don't care how good they taste, he needs it more than you do. Kolivan, we may have to buy a few Hanifor science ships just so that we can plantation-farm the ingredients for those in the envirodecks. Groshan, I really mean it. Give that bar over or I'm demoting you back to piloting that troop carrier.”_

Without looking around, Shiro reached out and plucked the granola bar out of the hands of a Blade who was twice his mass and bit into it. It was rich and nutty and sweet, both crunchy and chewy, and it took some the edge off of his monstrous appetite. By the time that he had come to the last of them, he could register a world outside of his own needs again, and he snapped the last bar in half and handed it to the man kneeling next to him. Shiro managed to struggle upright, but didn't object when someone caught him under the arms and helped him into the nearby pilot's chair. He nodded his thanks and leaned back to rest, eyes closed, listening to the comm chatter.

“ _Is he all right?”_ he heard Lance ask, sounding weary. _“Yeah, he feels okay. That was big. Holy crow, that was really big. Hey, Yantilee, did we win? I think we won. If we did, I missed it.”_

“ _I'd say so,”_ Yantilee replied calmly. _“The enemy didn't run, but neither are they leaving. Varda, I've got people rounding up the survivors, but you'll want to get down to Jeproba to tell them what's going on fairly soon. I'll send an escort with you to back you up in case the locals decide to deal with the prisoners themselves.”_

Pidge muttered something impolite, but agreed. _“Yeah. No bloodthirsty mobs. I am allergic to bloodthirsty mobs. I hereby declare the Jeproba System to be a No Bloodthirsty Mobs Zone. Do you hear that, people of Jeproba? No mobs.”_

Shiro smiled faintly, and felt a cold hand pat his shoulder, and his opposite cheek was kissed lightly by a woman who wasn't there. They'd won, and he had helped, and the satisfaction of that eased his way into a deep and all-enveloping sleep...

… and into dreams.

It took him a long moment before he opened his eyes, simply because he couldn't believe what his senses were telling him. He was still sitting in a chair, but the proportions had changed. The seat he'd been slumped in had been designed for Galra, who were taller and longer-limbed than Humans; it was a chair of Earthly make that he sat in now, and of a sort that could be found in the better restaurants of his home planet. He could hear the subdued roar of a happy crowd, and the play-by-play chatter from what seemed to be a pair of sports commentators, and under all of that was the background beat of the latest hit from a popular band. His nose detected the unmistakable aromas of spicy, deep-fried chicken wings—fried in genuine, old-fashioned peanut oil and not any of the modern, “healthy” synthetics. He smelled barbecue sauce, and french fries, red meat and coleslaw; the sharp tang of onion and the soft burn of mustard, and the underlying mellow odors of good draft beer. He knew this place, and opened disbelieving eyes to gaze upon the interior of Hank's, the best and fanciest sports bar in town. He had been here only once before, just a few days before Adam had--

He stopped that thought right there, unwilling to revisit that time in his life. Instead, he concentrated on his surroundings. Hank's was a vast open space with two levels, the lower level with its massive bar and the glimmering display of over two hundred craft and microbrewery beers behind it. The walls were nothing more or less than giant vid-screens, as always tuned to the latest big game. It was said that Hank, who still ran the place, had a superstitious phobia of showing anything else, lest the Almighty become angry with him. There seemed to be some grounds for that belief, since the last time some poor fool of a night manager had switched to a politics channel, a supercell storm had blown up out of nowhere and had knocked the power out for over a week. Hank had reportedly fired the man on the spot, dragged in a portable generator, and had played three decades' worth of Superbowl, World Series, Olympics, FIFA championships, Wimbledon, and even Sumo match recordings in the original Japanese nonstop until the power grid had been repaired. Tonight, however, the screens showed the battle for Jeproba, and the crowd below roared in approval as the Lions zoomed by.

He was sitting at a table on the upper level, he realized, which was generally reserved for high rollers, business lunches, and parties. It was largely empty now, save for a table some distance away, where a fallen soldier and a woman who had been greatly valued for her far-sightedness toasted each other and the battle with tall glasses of Guiness.

_A very good game,_ someone said nearby.  _Congratulations, Champion._

The voice was strange, a resonating baritone that was peculiarly directionless. Shiro turned to stare at the person sharing his table. The tall, muscular Galra man sitting comfortably across from him was no one that he knew, but one who nevertheless looked incredibly familiar. He was wearing hunting leathers as casually as if they were everyday wear, and his fur was very dark; nearly black, with a frosting of silvery hairs over his shoulders and upper arms that made him look like a distant starfield. An aura of age and power hung around him like perfume, and a half-empty glass of some golden liquor stood near his hand. On the table before him was a long string of what looked to be gemstone beads: agates and amythests, amber and malachite, topaz and carnelian and a hundred other stones, all carved into shapes resembling claws, fangs, and small bones. A small bowl of loose beads sat by the glass, and he was stringing them on the cord with care and admiration for each one, sealing each gem into place with a neat little knot.

“Who are you?” Shiro asked warily.

The Galra looked up. For a second, he looked like Modhri, but that changed from moment to moment, his features constantly shifting their shape in a subtle ripple of form and expression. For a second he was Vennex, and then Zaianne, and then Sendak, and then Keith, and a dozen other people whom he had never seen before. The eyes were always the same, though, glowing like Earth's own Harvest Moon as it rose above September's horizon, orange-gold and full of mystery. He had seen them once before, briefly, as well as the smile that followed.

_A colleague, for the time being,_ the stranger said.  _Insofar as that is possible, anyway. I had to bend some rules for this arrangement, but it was agreed that this was necessary. The other team has been cheating, you see, and ours needed a pinch-hitter._

A long, clawed finger flicked toward the screens, and Shiro turned to see Voltron deal a deathblow to a warship. There was a faint, glassy clatter that made Shiro look around again, and he saw two more gems coalesce out of thin air and drop into the bowl. His strange companion made a faint clucking sound of mild disappointment and lifted one of them up for inspection. Light from the screens glinted off of smooth obsidian, and the man vented a small sigh.

_Courage will only take you so far, I'm afraid,_ he murmured, sliding the bead onto the cord.  _Fortune might favor the bold, but not forever. Rest well, and know that your life was not wasted._

Shiro blinked in confusion, and then realized that those words had been directed at the bead, not at him. “I don't understand. I think that I saw you before, back in that old star cluster. What do you want from me, and from the rest of us?”

The Galra smiled and cast him a lambent glance from fathomless eyes. _Yes, you did. Good. Not many would have, even where the boundaries have been worn so thin. As for what I want... well, it would take far too long to explain. Boil it down to the very essence and it becomes a miracle of simplicity: I want you to win._

“To... to win?” Shiro asked. “That's all?”

All _is a very big word, Champion._ Another knot was set into place, and another bead was chosen and admired.  _Winning is by no means limited to the conclusion of a match. Far too many winning streaks end in failure because the contestants do not follow through. I don't think that you'll make that mistake. I chose very carefully this time._

Shiro heard a certain grimness in the stranger's tone, one that he recognized. “This time. Not last time?”

The Galra's hands paused in their work, and eyes the color of molten gold turned to gaze upon Voltron as the mighty battle robot claimed an orbital fort. _No. Mistakes were made, and very serious ones. We've lost a lot of ground since then, and desperately need to reclaim it. Take heart, Champion. We've already made some spectacular plays, and the likelihood of making more is very good. Not least because of you. Hah. The other team wasn't expecting_ you.

“Me?” Shiro asked, very surprised. “I haven't done all that much.”

The Galra man cast him an amused glance and returned to his bowl of beads; three more gems snapped into being and dropped into the bowl with hard little sounds. _That's what you think. Sometimes, a person doesn't have to_ do _anything. Sometimes, they just have to_ be. _Sometimes, they don't have to be a person so much as an idea, a memory, or a symbol. Here, you might recognize this._

The Galra lifted up a length of his string of gems, and Shiro stared in astonishment at one particular bead. Carved expertly from silver-gray banded agate was a mechanical arm that he knew very well. It had been his, and the sight of it shocked him into speechlessness.

_I had you cupped in the palm of my hand,_ the man said with considerable amusement,  _and not without a certain wicked glee, I confess. It was very close to stealing, but arguably fair, since a halfblood of my own people thought of you as a brother. For my kind, a declaration of kinship goes a bit further than mere convenience. For the love of kin, he and his siblings stole you right out from between my fingers, leaving only this behind. A bitter gift it might have been to you, but it is treasure to me, and well worth the trouble of obtaining it._

Shiro shuddered and looked away. On the screens, the vast hull of the _Quandary_ spat great storms of ion blasts while swarms of smaller craft swooped and dove under the cover of that incandescent fire. Closer to hand, a pair of ghosts sat with their arms around each other's shoulders, singing a bawdy drinking song. On the floor below, the crowd cheered; on the table behind him, another stone dropped into the bowl.

Shiro heaved a long sigh. “Why are you telling me any of this?”

_You've earned it, for what little comfort that might bring you,_ the man said, golden eyes solemn in a face that, just for a second, looked like Zarkon's before easing into Kelezar's gentler angles.  _I've put you through a great deal of pain, and for that I apologize, and for the pain that may well come in the days ahead. Do not be afraid to ask for advice from your friends, even about this discussion. It's your right, and your duty to be in possession of all of the facts._

Shiro puffed a faint, amused breath. “Are you going to tell any of the others this?”

The Galra fished the last stone out of his bowl with a pensive expression, admired it and then strung it before replying. _No. Not personally. It's an effort to speak to the living even in dreams these days. Zerod over there had the right of it when he said that you were easy to talk to, having already been a little bit dead. You'll just have to pass my words on for me, eh? They're not much, I know, but it's good to get a bit of applause from one's backers now and again._

Shiro watched as the stranger picked up his glass and drained it, and dropped a handful of coins on the table that shone like stars. “Thank you, I suppose. Do you think that we'll be able to pull this off?”

The Galra gave him a smile that he'd seen on Zaianne's lips, full of humor and mischief and a mother's fondness for her near-adult sons. _I wouldn't have chosen you if I didn't think so. I should go; you need your rest and there are things that I need to do. Don't worry, I've paid the tab for our friends there, and they won't mind if you leave early._

Shiro had to agree with that. The two people at the far table had called for fresh drinks and a platter of snacks, and Tzairona was teasing the waiter into a fit of bashful blushes. The man in hunting leathers stood up and wound the rope of gems around his waist and crosswise over one shoulder in long, glittering loops, then turned to leave, stooping slightly to pick up something that had been laid across a couple of extra chairs. The pale length of it glowed like mother-of-pearl, and the tip of it was a long lick of cold flame. Shiro drew in a sharp breath. “That's Lizenne's!”

_It's mine, actually, but I've lent it to her for the time being,_ the man said with a sharp smile, his features shifting to mimic those of Ulaz, who had given his life to save them all.  _It's always best to have the right tools for the project at hand. You have yours, just as your team has theirs. You all have been given these gifts; use them well. Farewell for now, Champion. I'll see you again later, when the time is right._

He turned and strode away, vanishing into a twist of shadow before Shiro's wondering eyes, while on the screen before him the enemy was forced to surrender before the might of the Coalition's forces.

Shiro woke with a gasp and found himself in his own bed, divested of his armor and a small hand-glow on the bedside table illuminating a tall glass of water, a pitcher dewed with condensation, and a big plate of sandwiches under a transparent dome. His mind might have been reeling, but his stomach was perfectly clear about its requirements, and he dug into the food with deep gratitude for his team's care. The meal gave him enough strength to take a shower, but that was all, and he returned to his bed with a soft, tired groan. Sleep came easily, and with no more dreams.

He woke briefly to find more sandwiches and the energy to devour them, slept again, and repeated the process upon waking two more times before he found himself staring at the empty platter and not needing to flop back down again. Instead, he was still feeling a little peckish, so he took a quick shower to wash the crumbs off, pulled on one of the comfortable outfits that Lance had run up for him, and ambled out into the hall. It was late, he could feel that much, or perhaps very early, and he had no idea of how long he'd been asleep. He hadn't lost too much weight this time, or at least he didn't think so. His footsteps were sure and he wasn't dizzy, so that was something. He had nearly reached the lift when something squeaked behind him, and there was a familiar prickle on his right shin that told him that he wasn't alone.

“Hey there,” he said quietly, smiling down at the indignant ball of purple fluff that had attached itself to his leg. “How'd you get out of your room, Ranax? Do you need a snack, too?”

Ranax squeaked again, and allowed himself to be picked up and carried into the lift. Shiro stroked the soft fur while the lift took them up a few levels, and then headed toward the kitchen when the doors hissed softly open. Halfway there, he had to stop; his nose was registering an impossibility, and one that made a pang run through his heart and his breath catch in his teeth. Ranax squeaked and wriggled out of his grip, dropping to the floor and scampering toward the source of that scent. A moment later, he heard Ranax demanding a portion in his loud, shrill voice; Galra, Shiro reflected, even when they were very little, rarely begged. It took some doing even to get them to ask politely.

When he stepped into the kitchen, he saw that his nose hadn't lied to him; on the table was a plate of steaming, reddish objects that were painfully familiar. Zaianne was having a midnight snack, or trying to; Ranax had crawled up into her lap and was grabbing determinedly at the plate.

“Should he be having any of that?” Shiro asked, his eyes riveted to the food. “And where did we get spicy chicken wings?”

Zaianne smiled and separated the bones out of a wing, dropping the juicy fragments of meat into Ranax's snapping maw. “This little monster likes the spices very much, alas, and you should have heard him yelling for a share when these came out of the fryer. It isn't chicken, actually, but there is a Jeproban poultry-bird that comes very close to chicken in flavor and texture. The spices come from a dozen different worlds, but yes, it's a very good approximation. Sit down and share this meal with me, my son. It's good to see you up and about.”

Shiro gratefully pulled over a chair and grabbed a wing. It was slightly larger than a chicken's and the wingtips had rather alarming claws on them, but the flavor was everything that he could have hoped for. His dream had given him a craving, he thought, or perhaps he'd picked it up through the Lion-bond while he'd been asleep. He had gone through three of them before pausing to drink from the glass that Zaianne passed him.

“Good?” she asked, and smiled at his enthusiastic affirmative. “Before you ask, yes, Lizenne took a sample of the uncooked meat back to the _Chimera_ , where it will be added to the gene-files. The dragons like it too, and therefore we will never lack for an almost-chicken dinner. How are you feeling?”

Shiro burped and reached for another wing. “Better. I think that I overdid it again. How long was I out?”

“Two days,” she replied, taking a wing for herself. “Don't worry, that's fairly common for an aetheric effort such as the one you produced. My colleagues were able to get food and fluids into you right away, which helped. Everyone was very impressed.”

“We won, then,” Shiro said, watching Ranax grab at Zaianne's wing.

“We did,” Zaianne answered, pulling a chunk of meat from the drumette and feeding it to the greedy child. “And very handily, with your guidance. The whole battle was over and done with in a handful of hours, which is unheard-of for an operation that big. I'm afraid that the Jeprobans got to their Governor, several of his cronies and underlings, and a fair few of the more obstreperous soldiers before we could. The best that I can say about that was that it was... very quick. Yantilee's people had very little trouble in convincing the rest of the occupiers that they should come along quietly. Most of them, anyway. There are a few outposts that are holding out against us, but we're working on that.”

Shiro hissed, remembering the huge digging claws that the pangolin-like Jeproban at the meeting had, and how badly that people had been treated by their overlords. “No mobs?”

Zaianne chuckled and took another wing. “No. Jasca made sure that the folks on the ground heard Pidge forbidding that sort of thing, and they're in enough awe of the Voltron Force—that includes you, by the way—that they're willing to humor her. It wasn't a mob that got the Governor and the rest, but simple opportunistic assassinations. Jeprobans made good servants, up to a point. There won't be any more of that sort of thing, thankfully. We have all spent the last two days helping to ensure that the System will remain stable and well-defended after we've left. I'm not sure what made the bigger impression—the formal alliance that Allura hammered out between them and the Coalition, or the big cookout that Hunk organized afterward. In any case, the Olkari have already gotten to work on the planet's ravaged ecology with some help from Pidge, Keith is helping to clean up polluted areas, Hunk is repairing broken utility systems right and left, and Lance is helping with the wounded. Coran has a gift for administration, and has pressed poor Vennex into service as his gofer; Lizenne and Modhri have been doing everything they can to help, as have the mice and dragons. Even this one's father--” she said, indicating the greasy-fingered brat in her lap, “--has located a business contact and is setting up supply lines. If you decide to visit them as well, expect applause. Oracles are highly honored on Jeproba.”

Shiro licked spicy fingers and took a sip from his glass. “I had help. My team, the Lions, even Zerod and Tzairona. And... and maybe someone else. I had a dream.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Tell me, and in as much detail as you can remember.”

“I was in a sports bar. Hank's, which was...” he shuddered; mentioning the name of the place brought it all back in frightening detail.

By the time that he had finished the story, the plate was empty and Ranax was slurping the spice off of it while Zaianne disposed of the bones. She washed her hands at the sink, retrieved a canister of cleansing wipes and sat down with a thump, and then fixed him with a very direct look while she cleaned the red-orange residue off of Ranax's face and hands. “My son, that was a God you were speaking with.”

Shiro stared at her. “A God?”

She nodded, draping the sleepy cub over her shoulder and patting his back until he burped. “And not the least among His Kin. That was Kuphorosk Himself, from your description, and while it does not surprise me that He is on our side, it does raise some unsettling questions. You will want to tell Lizenne about this when she wakes up. I know a number of interesting legends, but she's done more research than I. Did Khaeth ever tell you the Tale of the Bone Spear?”

“No. I wasn't aware that he knew any Galra mythology.”

Zaianne humphed faintly. “Perhaps we should have a storytelling night sooner, rather than later. If we've been co-opted into a game of gods, then I want everybody to know what's going on.”

Shiro picked up the plate, which had been polished clean, and slid it into the cleanser. “He chose me, specifically.”

“That's even worse,” Zaianne said, and then smiled. “At least He had the grace to apologize. It's very rare for any Deity to do that. Don't worry too much about it, Shiro. Our Gods were... _are_ a rough and cheerful bunch for the most part, and They tended not to waste Their chosen ones. What good is it to kill off your Champions, however nobly, particularly before they'd had a chance to breed? Heroism is rare, and often skips generations, and the Gods liked having plenty of talented people around to work with. Our God-touched greats almost always wound up having big families. The old Royal Houses all prided themselves on their connections to those legendary Lineages, and many others as well. Mine included.”

“I'm Human,” Shiro protested.

“Humans and Galra are genetically related,” Zaianne informed him, “Lizenne confirmed it when she rebuilt your body. A bad joke on the part of some Elder Race, she believes, but she doesn't know which one, or which of our races is an offshoot of the other. It's not too far-fetched an idea—I saw a documentary once while I was living with Khaeth's father, on the evolution of certain creatures. The ancestors of the whale roamed on dry land and looked more like dogs than anything else, sheep and goats have an ancestor that might as well have been a sort of hyena, and there used to be a species of ten-foot-long, carnivorous kangaroo. There was even a type of saber-toothed herring, and the closest living relative of the elephant is a creature that is about the size and shape of a rabbit. Why shouldn't we have embarrassing and funny-looking relatives as well?”

Shiro puffed a laugh. “Well, that would explain a few things. Some of our own historical figures acted a lot like Sendak, and others were a lot like Zarkon.”

“Are you sure that Zarkon and Sendak aren't acting like them?” Zaianne smirked and handed him a wipe for his own hands. “It doesn't matter. Evil is the same, no matter who carries it, and it will be faced down and defeated regardless of time and place. Speaking of that, I feel like playing around a bit with Pidge's video game system. Would you like to accompany me?”

“Sure,” he said, and followed her out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *runs back* Everybody has been so wonderful with their support and encouragement, thank you! ALSO! Today is Spanch's birthday, so everyone send her good thoughts for the day, please! *runs away again*


	5. An Old Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sleep? What is sleep?

Chapter 5: An Old Friend

Shiro stared. So did everyone else. Lizenne had demanded every last detail of his strange dream, and had decided to test its veracity with a known sample, namely the bone spear. She'd let the other Paladins handle it as well, being fairly sure that it wouldn't try to kill them. All it had done was glimmer a bit, although they had all heard the happy hum when Allura had touched it, possibly an acknowledgment of her triumph over Zarkon back on Teravan. Its reaction to Shiro was a bit more dramatic. He was standing now, arm outstretched with palm held flat and facing upwards while the long pale streak of bone and ivory hovered about an inch above his hand, shimmering like white opal and making a sound like the singing wind. He could almost make out words in that song, and it sounded almost like a hymn.

“And there's the proof of it,” Lizenne said, retrieving the weapon carefully. “That wasn't precisely a dream, Shiro, and I'll have you know that the last documented Visitation of this nature took place some nine thousand, nine hundred, and seventy-six years ago, just before Zarkon and Haggar crushed most of the Temples.”

“So, what are we going to do about it?” Keith asked, eyeing the spear warily.

“Nothing at all.” Lizenne smiled at his offended expression. “There isn't anything that we can do, nor should we try. I knew what I was getting into when I made this thing, although I wasn't expecting its influence to spread like it has. That you can all use this spear is... interesting. No other bone spear has ever allowed so many to handle it.”

Allura rubbed at her palm, which was tingling, although not unpleasantly. “I think that I might have heard something about that, long ago. Yes! I was only about seven or eight decaphebes old, and a Galra Ambassador was visiting Father's Court. She was very old and enjoyed playing with small children, and we became quite fond of each other. She would do pretty little magic tricks for me, and told me stories. I had thought that they were mere legends and bedtime tales.”

“What did she say?” Hunk asked curiously, rubbing at his own hand.

Allura gazed thoughtfully up at the ceiling as she tried to remember. “There had been a military parade earlier that day, an effort made to impress Father by one of the other Ambassadors whose culture demanded that sort of thing. Quite a lot of big, shiny ceremonial weapons had been waved about, some of which were supposed to have been magical or holy. I asked Ambassador... what was her name... Ambassador Ashoren if Galra had anything like that.”

Lizenne nodded, a nostalgic gleam in her eyes. “Many. Some of them even still exist in museums and private collections. A few of them are part of the landscape here and there.”

“Yes, but she also told me that the rarest of all mortal-made weapons would only permit their creators to touch them, unless certain, very important conditions were met. If another person needed to use them, there had to have been a special oath made, and beyond that there had to have been ties of blood. She wouldn't say more.”

Lizenne's brow furrowed in thought for a minute or two, and then she breathed out a decisive _Ah. “Ghren-khesh'vaaht.”_

“That was the one that Zaianne swore when she joined up with us,” Pidge said. “What does that mean, anyway?”

“'Soul-sisters in adversity', to translate very loosely,” Lizenne told her. “A very ancient oath. Should two unrelated women have the same mortal enemy, one might beg or one might offer the other the privilege of sisterhood, taking each other to be as one with them in purpose, strength, and spirit, the better to increase their chances of defeating that enemy. In all the ways that really matter, Zaianne _is_ my sister, as much so as if we had been born as twins. This gives her license to use my spear, so long as she does so in the furtherance of the oath of _kheshveg_ that we have sworn against the Emperor and his witch. Keith, you are her first-born and only son, and you, by right of the blood you share with her, may use it as well. Through your Human blood and the soul-bond that the Lions have given you, the others may also wield it in times of need. I suppose that we shouldn't be surprised that the spear's Master has taken an interest. What we're doing here is just a bit unprecedented, and unique things always attract attention.”

“That's us, all right,” Shiro said quietly, and then raised an eyebrow at their companion. “Will he have much influence over what we're doing? I can live with having a guardian spirit, but not if he steps in and takes over without warning me.”

Lizenne leaned on her spear and considered that for a moment before gesturing a negative. “No, or not much. By his own nature, he is much concerned with things of the past. He is perfectly capable of planning ahead, of course, that much is well-known from his surviving Lore, but he has no direct control over events as they happen. That's up to the living, I'm afraid, and none of us here truly corresponds to his own particular element. Voltron was not designed by a Galra, or its aetheric framework would have been very different. Altean alchemy is completely dissimilar from Galra witchery in many ways.”

Lance snapped his fingers. “Which is why Haggar can do things that you can't, but I'd bet that you—heck, all of us—can do things that she can't even dream of. She wouldn't be able to make one of those bone spears, right?”

Lizenne chuckled wickedly. “I'd like to see her try. At best, she'd be left with a pile of splinters and a few second-degree burns when it blows up in her face. At worst, she'd accidentally decapitate herself with the spearhead. Don't look at me like that, it's happened before, and more than once.”

“Risky,” Hunk said, eyeing the spear with deep suspicion. “Okay, so... what do we do now? I mean, it's nice getting a thumbs-up from someone else's pantheon and all, but we've still gotta find ways of dealing with our real-world problems. Keith says that Shiro saw that we'll have more Robeasts to deal with later, and sooner or later Zarkon's gonna start taking the Ghost Fleet seriously enough to really come down hard on them, and he'll probably start hammering on that Coalition we're putting together, too. I kind of want to be ready for him, you know?”

Lizenne shrugged. “You may be asking the wrong person. Kolivan and Yantilee are better long-term tacticians than I am, and have many more resources to tap. All that I can really suggest is that you might hang up a 'Do Not Disturb' sign for a few hours, perhaps get in one of the dragons to watch your backs, and spend the afternoon in a circle-session. You haven't done a full one with Shiro yet, have you?”

Keith shook his head. “Nope. Something always comes up, and then we have to go and hit something with a Lion. We still need to get back to--”

Allura's wrist-comm went _beep,_ startling them all. “Yes?” she asked.

“ _There you are, Princess,”_ Coran's voice said, _“we just got a call from Haswick; it seems that we've got a visitor, and she's been asking specifically to see you and the team. Seeing as how the ship's an Omorog long-range Royal Courier, I'd say that it's probably fairly important. Might possibly be a plea for liberation, eh? It'd be nice to head back out there again.”_

Allura smiled. “It would, and liberating planets does seem to be what we are for. By all means, invite them in.”

“ _Will do,”_ Coran said staunchly. _“I'll direct them to the shuttle deck. There should be plenty of room in there, since the Fleet captains took out all but one of those Hatchcrackers.”_

Pidge humphed at that; she'd liked having the Hatchcrackers around, and having them stolen out from under her hadn't gone over well with their pint-sized pirate princess. Allura cast her a quelling look—they needed to stay in the Fleet's good graces—and answered, “Thank you, Coran, we'll go down and meet the courier there.”

“ _Very good, Princess, I'll warn them,”_ Coran replied and signed out.

Lance had perked up instantly at the word “Omorog”, and he smiled hopefully. “Maybe it's a message from Loliqua—maybe she's Seen something important, and couldn't trust the comm channels. Ooh, or they might be throwing a big party and want us to visit! Royalty does that sometimes, right, Allura?”

“Yes, although such events tend to be terribly public, and I'd rather not have to fly the Lion while wearing a ballgown, should someone alert the Galra fleets!” Allura paused, considering that. “Although I am told that my great-grandmother once did something very similar, when a Horlopt raiding party tried to take advantage of the Autumn Dances. I believe that one of the museums preserved what was left of her gown as a historical artifact.”

Shiro snorted a laugh and followed along as she led the way to the lifts. “Was it?”

“Well, she did use half of it to bind the Horlopt's War-Chief once she'd finished slamming his heads into a wall,” Allura said casually, as if everyone's great-grandma could kick ass like an Altean. “Other than that, it was five _thela_ of pure Voilaren ultrasilk, with thaquen-point lace at the bodice and sleeves, and the hems beautifully embroidered in the latest style. Even damaged, it was very much a treasure.”

Lizenne smirked. “Battle dress,” she said, making the others groan.

“I dunno, James Bond used to save the world in a tux all the time,” Hunk said, giving Lance a sidelong look. “There were like, forty or fifty movies and a whole bunch of vid series, and he looked sharp in every one of them. Even the thirty-first one, where he had to fight a pack of nuclear, neo-Communist, mad-science, space-alien-created dinosaurs in the middle of a toxic swamp on Venus. He got turned into a woman in that one, too, but the tux still fit like a glove. Think you can run us up some super-formalwear, Lance?”

Lance puffed a laugh; he'd seen that movie, and had ogled 007's female form shamelessly along with half of the world's population. That tux she'd been wearing had been a true work of costumer's art, especially when the snake popped out of her very impressive cleavage and bit the villain on the nose. “Maybe. I've still got a few other projects in the works.”

The Omorog Royal Courier was just settling itself into place in one of the larger bays when they arrived, a sleek, silver-and-blue craft that touched down with the feather-light precision that spoke of a really first-class pilot. The drive powered down with a long descending whine and the gyros emitted long geysers of steam as they cooled. A minute or two later, the main hatch cycled open and extended a shallow ramp, upon which appeared a tall, neatly-uniformed Griona, who then politely handed down a large and immensely dignified figure. Lance smiled like the sun coming up; while she had traded her customary silks and gems for a modest traveling gown, there was only one person she could possibly be, and he would have recognized her at once out of a stadium full of look-alikes.

“Loliqua?” He breathed, and then called out, _“Loliqua!”_

Shiro stared in perplexity as Lance dashed over to hug what looked to be a six-foot-tall toad in a schoolteacher's outfit, and one that was perfectly willing to hug him right back. Keith nudged him lightly in the ribs. “The Toad Princess of Omorog, remember? She owned Lance for about a week and a half a while ago, and I think that he had a better time than any of the rest of us.”

“Oh, we all made some friends,” Hunk said with a nostalgic smile. “And did some neat things while we were at it. Allura got to have a real car chase with explosions and everything, I got to build my own ticket arcade, you rescued a prince, Keith, and he's a pretty cool prince, too. Even Pidge came out way ahead of the game, but we couldn't have got her back without Loliqua's help. C'mon, Shiro, let's introduce you to her.”

That was harder than it looked. Lance was in transports of excitement, babbling a blue streak and waving his arms around while the Princess watched him with amused eyes. “Lance, dear, do calm down!” she said, her sweet, motherly voice striking Shiro as odd but appropriate. “Everything is just fine at home and will continue to be so, and didn't it just take some effort for me to ensure that! Let it be a lesson for all of us, that while it is good for one to make one's self useful, one can very easily become _too_ useful to those around us. Half of my Court and all of my ministers were in tears when I announced that I was taking this trip, poor things, although our Governor is doubtless trying and failing to corrupt my stand-in as I speak. There you are, all of you! How good it is to see you again! Lizenne, you look well... ah.” Loliqua's large, gold-threaded eyes sobered as she gazed into Shiro's iron-gray ones. “And this would be the young man that has been setting off fireworks all over the astral plane. That last one would have rattled my teeth if I'd had any.”

“Sorry,” Shiro said, a little uncertainly. “They just... happen, and I've had to go along with them.”

“They were kind of important,” Lance said defensively. “We would have had a lot more trouble at Bericonde and Jeproba if Shiro hadn't been telling us all what he'd Seen, and if he hadn't spotted Doodlebug for us, Lotor would have kicked our butts.”

Loliqua waved a hand in graceful reassurance. “There is no fault in him having the Visions, and indeed, he cannot help it; none of us can. He is quite _loud,_ which is common in an untrained Oracle, and I believe that I may be able to help with that somewhat. Allura, I must impose upon your hospitality and request a place where we will not be bothered for a time; if the Visions that I have been having are in any way accurate, the entire team must attend these lessons.”

“Of course,” Allura said pleasantly, waving a hand toward the lifts. “We've taken to doing aetheric exercises on the training deck, but we can bring in proper seating and refreshments. Will you wish to come along too, sir?”

That last had been directed at the courier pilot, who answered her query with a bow and a smile. “No, but thank you for offering, your Highness,” he replied, “regulations, you know. I'm not allowed to leave my ship unless it's in home port. Royal Couriers are very good craft; good enough that they're often targets for theft. Someone's got to stay aboard to disappoint burglars. It's all right, I've got plenty to keep me occupied.”

“ _Kirs_ Lathann is studying to move up a rank,” Loliqua explained. “He has ambitions of one day becoming the Director of the Royal Courier Fleet, and far be it from us to deny him some quiet time. Let us leave him to it. We have so much to tell each other.”

“...And that's pretty much how things stand right now,” Lance said, finishing up the long and peculiar story of their adventures. “Weird as it sounds, it all really happened, even the supernatural bits. So, how have you been, and what are you doing here?”

Loliqua sipped at her cup of hantic tea with the proper appreciation for the rare herb and shifted in her seat. Keith glared briefly at that particular piece of furniture, as if daring it to come after him again. Alteans were a tall and slender people even at their broadest, and their furniture reflected that; nothing in current use had been wide enough to seat their guest comfortably. Fortunately, the Castle had once received guests from all over the known universe, and had whole storerooms full of seating arrangements meant for persons of different physical configurations. Even though Loliqua was far more svelte now than she had been when last they had seen her, she was still wide enough to require something special. The team had found it in the form of a sort of fainting-couch, well-padded and lushly upholstered in glossy leaf-green satin, with a nice sturdy frame carved from some sort of dark, heavy wood. Emphasis on the heavy. Some brilliant person had attached a hover-plate to the underside of the seat, which was capable of lifting the couch about an inch and a half off of the floor, enabling it to be moved without damaging anyone's spine in the process. Unfortunately, the thing had a mind of its own, and it steered like an Earthly shopping cart that had been hit by cars a few times too many. It had refused point-blank to travel in a straight line, and it had a nasty tendency to whirl around on its axis without warning, dragging along whoever might be holding onto either end, and it seemed to have a burning desire to flatten Keith beneath its carved feet. As a result, the couch arrived on the training deck in a spinning, screaming, cursing rush, with Lance, Pidge, Keith, and Hunk clinging desperately to the sides and back, all of them bruised and dizzy. Loliqua had thanked them all very kindly for their efforts and had settled in once Hunk had killed the faulty antigravs.

“I had a Vision,” she said, setting the cup down neatly on its saucer, “To be truthful, I had several, some of which even made sense. Many of them concerned you and your recent exploits, and were each accompanied by intrusions upon the astral plane that sounded like thundercracks! I am used to picking up a certain amount of noise upon the Mindscape, but nothing like that. Thus, I decided that having Seen, I had to Act.”

“So, you came all the way out here,” Hunk said, offering her another cookie. “We were going to visit as soon as we got a break in the action, but you beat us to it.”

She took it with a nod of thanks. “That wouldn't have been a good idea. My world's peoples are far too well-behaved and placid to get into much trouble, and have been so for as long as the Empire has ruled us. Our new Governor has been quite frankly bored out of his mind, which is useful. He is far more interested in your antics, which has allowed us to sneak a number of things past him that we otherwise would not have been able to. Had you come by us again, he would have flown into a froth of maddened activity, which would have gotten you into a fight and us into a great deal of trouble.”

Shiro nodded, rubbing at his forehead. “Hunting for accomplices. Even if we'd taken him down, whoever got assigned there next would have ordered purges, and a lot of people would have been executed. I just Saw that.”

Loliqua reached over and patted his hand sympathetically. “As have I, and more than once, which is one of the reasons why I am here. Fortunately, we have been such very good little subjects that he was quite willing to let me go on this trip without bothering to ask any questions, even though I took one of our fastest and most maneuverable ships.”

“Hey, if you've gotta ride, then ride in style. Did you leave Fanlen in charge?” Lance asked.

Loliqua smiled proudly. “I did indeed. He's old enough for some hands-on training now, and the Ministerial Council and most of the offworld Delegates are fond of him. He shows enormous potential already, and so as to expedite his education, I decided to take a vacation. It isn't even unprecedented; I always take a week or three off whenever I have a governance-trained son or daughter at this stage, and usually off-planet. Everyone assumed that it was just another little pleasure-trip.”

Allura giggled. “Invisibility through being ordinary. We should try that sometime.”

The Paladins all looked at her as if she'd grown a set of Hoshinthra antennae, and she wilted under the obvious silliness of her suggestion. There was no possible way that a Paladin could ever be considered “ordinary”.

“Sorry,” she said a bit sheepishly.

Pidge shook her head. “I tried that in middle school, and it didn't work. Not after what Matt used to get up to between classes. All of the teachers, the Principal, the Superintendent, and the entire janitorial staff kept their eyes on me for the whole four years that I was there.”

Shiro smiled and gave her an ironic look. “Well, after that one prank he pulled in eighth grade, you know, the one with the bucket of mustard, the smoke bomb, the bag of marbles, and the science room's pet rabbit--”

Pidge rolled her eyes. “Do not speak of that rabbit. That rabbit had a better memory than half of my classmates, and he kept trying to get out of his cage and bite me all semester. God help you if you had eaten mustard any time in the past week, 'cause he'd smell it and get all mad, and _stop laughing, Lance!_ You don't know the horror of being chased down the hall by a raging, mustard-crazed lagomorph!”

Lance slumped onto the table, whooping with mirth. Lizenne gave Pidge an amused look. “Are rabbits as bad as chinchillas, I wonder?”

Pidge glared disgustedly at her snickering teammates. “Rabbits are bigger and can get pretty nasty when threatened, and that bunny had been the class pet for four years. Of course it had a bad attitude. Drinmar may have been on to something when he said that all planets have some sort of bunny, and that all of them are secretly evil. I am done talking about rabbits now. There are no rabbits in outer space. Let's talk about more important things, like Shiro's head, which needs examining.”

“You didn't have to put it quite like that, Pidge,” Shiro protested mildly.

She transferred her glare to him. “Didn't I? Spice Girls, Shiro. I was serious about that, and you really do have a bad drama habit.”

Loliqua smiled, gold-threaded eyes twinkling with good humor. “She isn't wrong, young man. Now hold still and let me have a look, and we'll see if a deeper one is necessary.”

Shiro shifted uneasily as she reached out and grasped his chin. Her grip was firm but gentle, the skin dry and surprisingly soft. She blinked her large eyes and focused them on his in a level, hard gaze that seemed to penetrate right to his core. Her own eyes were incredibly deep, and he realized that he had seen the golden lines in them twice before—once in a dream where he had been required to make a choice, and again, not so long ago, just before discovering a trio of Druids planning an ambush. He could almost see the galaxies strung like beads along those shining roads...

Loliqua hummed faintly and murmured, “Oh, yes. Yes, there it is. My goodness. Such power. I wonder if your kind might have some latent talent, although Lance once told me that aetheric science is a mere fiction in many of your cultures. And _that_ would be the ghost's gift... two gifts. Young man, if you had not died first, there simply wouldn't be room in there for all of this!”

Shiro saw Hunk give her a funny look out of the corner of his eye. “Dying makes people's heads stretch out?”

Loliqua made an amused sound and let go of Shiro's chin. “Not the heads so much as the... hmm, how shall I put this? There is a sort of... well, call it a webwork of physical systems, instincts, and conscious and unconscious will that holds the essential _you_ in place within your physical form. During most of a person's life, that webwork maintains a very tight grip upon the soul; it is at its most tenuous at the start and near the end of one's natural lifespan for obvious reasons, although some people are born able to detach themselves at will.”

Lizenne nodded. “Astral travelers. They are very rare, and highly prized for their ability to traverse the aether with instinctive ease. The Iberix, for example, have evolved it into a dominant trait. It is possible, with a certain amount of training, for an aetheric practitioner to learn to do the same, but it's dangerous. Without a proper anchor, you can wander away and never come back. You got yours from the Lion-bond, and the Lions themselves will not let you go.”

“True, but there are limits,” Loliqua cautioned. “An ordinary, nonmagical person does not have the sort of psychic flexibility that will allow for more than the occasional intuitive leap, and will remain tightly bound within themselves until their life's end, when all bonds break at once to let the soul continue onward. Assuming that it doesn't decide to hang about for a while for one reason or another, of course; an untimely death can make the disengagement a little haphazard. Like a net under tension, once the soul is released, the webwork will spring back and expand enormously, allowing the physical brain to shut down all of the autonomic support systems properly. This prevents wandering denizens from the planes of the Mindscape from moving in and causing trouble.”

“Wait, wait, hold it right there!” Lance blurted suddenly. “You mean that zombies can actually happen? Like real space zombies wandering around saying _'spaaace braaaains'?”_

“Briefly, and it is very rare,” Loliqua continued without missing a beat. “It's usually terribly embarrassing for everyone involved. The entities native to that plane simply don't have any idea of how to use a physical body, much less one whose neural tissue is already almost totally useless, I might add. While it is frightening for onlookers, it lasts no more than about ten minutes, past which the body becomes unusable. A bit of lurching, a bit of moaning, and then—thump!—it's over. It's been posited that such instances are little more than brief, interdimensional joyrides.”

Pidge thumped a fist on the table with a triumphant _hah._ “I knew it! Me and Matt used to argue about that whenever a new zombie apocalypse movie came out. He was all for the evil undead thing, and I was all 'no way, dude, dead neural tissue turns into a meat slushie within minutes, and muscles and tendons can't do anything without the nerves'. It's all just meat. There's no point in being scared of meat.”

“Try eating one of my Uncle Luis's super-secret-recipe tacos with special sauce sometime,” Lance suggested dryly, face crumpling up in remembered pain. “He always made them for block parties, and all of the neighborhood tough guys used to dare each other to eat a whole one without screaming. Nobody ever knew exactly what sort of meat he used, but Aunt Denise used to look at him funny whenever the specialty leather goods store down the road was selling sharkskin, alligator, or snakeskin purses. And the mess he left in the kitchen after making them, plus what the bathroom smelled like on the morning after? Oh, yeah, we feared that meat.”

Allura glanced quizzically at Lance. “I take it that sharks, alligators, or snakes aren't usually used in that dish?”

“Nope,” Pidge said with a narrow look at her teammate. “Let me guess, Carlos loved them?”

Lance sighed. “Yup. Aunt Lucia had to keep him away from open flames for two days if she smelled them on his breath. He liked to get Uncle Luis to slip him a few just before costume parties, so he could dress up as a sewer monster and smell totally authentic. He actually won a prize for that completely by accident when they were doing a lineup at a costume contest, when he got too close to one of the stage lights and the wiring was bad--”

Lizenne waved a stern finger at the blue Paladin. “That's quite enough of that, Lance. It's aetheric fire that we're interested in, not self-inflicted methane explosions. No one has ever brought the dead back to true life before.”

“So, what happened to me?” Shiro asked, confused but entirely alive.

“A number of things,” Loliqua replied. “First, you are soul-bound to the Lions of Voltron, who are uniquely able to provide you with an anchor. You are similarly bound to these young people here, who are also entirely unique, and a part of that same anchoring force. Your talent had not fully blossomed when you vanished into the Mindscape, which made you easier to hold onto. When Haggar killed you, she packaged up your vital parts before they had a chance to decompose, thus preserving life at the cellular level. Your teammates then did the impossible by retrieving your forcibly detached soul from the depths of the Robeast. You had a knowledgeable practitioner standing nearby with a containment unit to hold what they had retrieved--”

“There's a soul in my bucket, dear Liza, dear Liza...” someone sang softly.

There was a horrified pause at that ghastly pun, and everyone turned to stare at Keith, who had put on an almost waifishly innocent expression and was pointing at Lance.

Shiro glared at him. “Keith, I know what your singing voice sounds like.”

Lance thumped his fists down on the table with a thud that made their cups rattle in their saucers. _“Quiznek!_ Keith, how could you?”

“Lance...” Allura sighed warningly.

“It's not that!” Lance snarled. “I'm just mad that I didn't think of it! I mean, it's a great joke, and it was standing around with its pants down for weeks, _and I didn't think of it!_ I must need more sleep or something.”

Shiro puffed a brief laugh and rubbed at his face. “Don't we all. So, all of my heartstrings had stretched out, huh?”

Loliqua sipped her tea again, sending a stern look at the pouting blue Paladin. “My dear boy, by the time that they were able to funnel you back into your custom-rebuilt corpus, there was room enough for three other people in there, and I do not doubt that the Lions were vigilant to the point of insomnia in order to keep anything else from moving in with you!”

“Which would have given you a great deal of room to grow, so to speak,” Allura said thoughtfully. “How curious. That would certainly have allowed Tzairona to fit her Lens in there, and you did say that Zerod smoothed her path.”

Shiro grimaced and rubbed the back of his head with one hand. “He burned that path in with a shot of white lightning. It seemed to work.”

“In more ways than one,” Loliqua said firmly. “In some ways, his might have been the greater gift. How has your physical conditioning been coming along, Shiro?”

He opened his mouth to reply, and then closed it with a frown as he did the math. “Very well. Too well. The team and the Lions have been helping me recover, but the new techniques that Zaianne's been teaching me... They're a lot easier to learn than they should be.”

“I'll want a look at both of those gifts,” Loliqua said firmly, and turned to Lizenne. “Were you ever able to examine them?”

Lizenne shook her head and cast Shiro a faintly exasperated look. “No. Both have sunk down to the level of the Lion-bond, and I know better than to go digging around anywhere near _that._ I might as well dig up a power main with a silver shovel while wearing full copper armor in the middle of a violent electrical storm. The result would certainly be the same.”

Keith jerked a thumb in the general direction of the black Lion's hangar. “Black doesn't like her much, and he's a little possessive. Maybe if we did that circle-session like we've been meaning to, you'll be able to see more?”

Lizenne frowned thoughtfully. “Possibly, if you go deep enough.”

“Circle-session?” Loliqua asked curiously.

“A group aura-sharing exercise,” Lizenne replied, “usually for the purpose of getting to know one's companions better, but it's a good base for doing other things as well. I believe that one of the contemplative faiths on your world uses a version of it for mass meditations.”

“ _Cui'cuong-Thie,”_ Loliqua said with a snap of her fingers. “Of course. The Trance of Togetherness. I used to envy those who had the talent for such deep connections, particularly when my own powers were just starting to develop. By all means, if you are willing to perform that exercise, it would help me gauge exactly what sort of training that I will need to impart.”

“Right, I'll get the floor cushions,” Pidge said, hopping up. “Time to try the new ones Lance made.”

Loliqua cast a questioning glance at Lizenne, who replied, “Sitting on the floor is safer. Even small exercises can have dramatic outcomes in this group, and falling out of chairs is no fun.”

Pidge came trotting back from the storage closet, nearly invisible behind a pile of big pillows, which her teammates were quick to grab. This wasn't surprising; Lance had made the most of his sewing array's ability to embroider things, and the results were fairly impressive. Blue Lions and wave patterns for Lance, of course, and Keith's was a deep red with flame decals. Hunk's had a mountain scene, Allura's was pink with embroidered mice, and Pidge's was green with a clever pattern that might have been either vines or circuit boards. Shiro's was black, and embroidered with stars.

“Lovely,” Loliqua observed quietly to Lizenne.

Lizenne nodded. “He has considerable talent.”

The Paladins arranged themselves on the cushions, all but oblivious to the observers. In truth, they'd been eager for a chance to try this exercise with the whole team for some time. Shiro settled down, folding his long legs comfortably, and looked around at his companions. “So, how does this work?” he asked.

“It's simple,” Allura said. “Lights off.”

The room darkened instantly, taking all distractions with it. “The black Lion gives us this gift,” Allura continued, and a small sphere of pale light appeared, shining like a star. In the distance, the Lions became visible as well, glowing softly in their signature colors, quiescent for the moment. “All we need to do is hold it, and then pass it on. Not with the hands, but with the will.”

So saying, she cupped the floating light in her hands, lending it a rosy tint, and then let it drift into Shiro's possession. To his surprise, it was warm, and it felt like he was holding a part of her in his hands. “That's... very strange,” he murmured.

“It came as a surprise to the rest of us too, the first time,” Keith said softly. “Pass it on, Shiro.”

It took him a moment to figure out how to do that, but the rose-violet orb sailed easily into Keith's hands. He sighed and rolled the ball of light from palm to palm with a pensive look on his face. “You're scared.”

Shiro couldn't deny it. “Yeah.”

“It'll get better,” Hunk said, his face crumpling into a frown as he received the orb. “We've got your back, Chief. Always.”

“Always,” Pidge echoed, receiving the orb next. “Nobody hurts my family.”

“Nobody,” Lance agreed, his face a rainbow in the light of the orb.

Allura caught the orb in silence; no more words needed to be said. The signatures that the team had left upon the shining sphere said everything that needed saying, and she passed it back to Shiro, who drew in a long, shaking breath at the feel of their conviction. They took it slow for the first few rounds, gently easing Shiro into the rhythm of it, coaxing him into relaxing the tight controls that he had placed upon himself. Controls, they soon realized, that had been in place since well before the ill-fated trip out to Kerberos. Shiro was reluctant to let go, but with every revolution of the orb, it got easier. Past the natural frustrations of convalescence, past the anxieties all leaders felt when their responsibilities closed in on them, down to where both old and recent pain lurked, but he was not alone this time. The others were with him now, and he breathed deeply of their presence. Keith was with him, burning like a bonfire and driving the shadows away. Pidge was with him, rooted deep, fantastically complex above and below. Lance was with him, solid as an iceberg, and like that iceberg, there was far more to him than was easily seen. Hunk was with him, steady as a mountain, warm and immovable. Allura was with him, shining brighter than the sun. He could feel them all around him, supportive and protective, welcoming him into their company. _It's all right,_ they said to him, _we've got you. Let it out._

_Show us,_ Keith told him, _we can take it._

They could, he realized. They were not children anymore. They had fought and killed, and had both won and lost; they had seen both the horrible and the sublime and had survived. They made their own decisions and followed through on them. There was nothing that they could not do, if they did it together. He did not need to protect them from the nightmares that stalked him where no one could see. They also loved, he discovered, somewhat to his surprise. They loved each other, and they loved him. Sibling love, mostly, but he saw that it was starting to go deeper. That Lance was powerfully attracted to Allura was no surprise, but that she was starting to return those feelings was. The feelings that the blue Paladin had expressed in his bout of drunkenness earlier on had been entirely genuine, as a matter of fact, and was having difficulty squaring them with himself. Hunk loved everyone, as naturally as breathing. Keith had deep feelings for both Shiro and for Pidge that he barely knew what do do with, and Pidge's feelings for her male teammates—including him—were very much the same. Allura was a little harder to read, but what she felt was a pure, deep affection for all of them. All of it was as pure as the first light of dawn, and it hit Shiro's heart hard enough to break open old wounds.

The torments he had suffered all too recently at Haggar's hands bloomed in his memory like venomous brambles. She had taken him to pieces, bit by bit from the inside out; the physical pain had been incidental compared to the illusions and terrors that she had visited upon his mind. She had tried to break him, to reduce him to a maddened animal, and had almost succeeded.

In response, the others flared in outrage, and then locked into place around him in a defensive ring, creating a safe space within for him to purge the poisons. It certainly felt like having an abscessed wound cleansed—a mingled feeling of pain and relief as the hot, diseased pressures were eased. _More,_ they told him, _get it all out._

He could not resist that command. Old self-doubts left over from their early days of training to be Paladins came out, homesickness and hidden fears of the sheer scale of the daunting task that had been forced upon them. The shock of his initial kidnapping, fears for Sam and Matt when they had been taken away, and the endless horrors of the arena. Day after day of it, being forced to disable and kill other people, and things that had once been people. He remembered the stark terror of fighting the Druid, and the guilt that plagued him when he had been forced to put down the half-mechanical monsters that came out of Haggar's lab. He remembered with deep shame what he had done to the creature that he had not then known was Modhri, despite that man's gentle reassurances that it had been worth it, and he recalled the shock of waking up wearing an arm that was not his. His half-botched escape at Ulaz's hands and the knock on his head that had further skewed his drug-addled brain, the bad landing that had driven the memories even further away. The fear of not knowing where he had been. The fear of not knowing where he was going.

_Keep going,_ his team said, aching along with him but determined to get to the bottom of it.

Shiro was reluctant to go any deeper. He knew what awaited him beneath all the rest, and that loss had nearly killed him.

_We're here for you,_ they whispered in his heart.

_Adam,_ he thought, the very name a black shard of loss skewering his soul.

He could remember the last night that he'd seen Adam alive, on his birthday. Shiro and the rest of the squad had all chipped in to buy a table on the upper level of Hank's Sports Bar, where the view of the game was the best, the beer and food were the best, and the waitstaff were the prettiest... he could still taste the spicy wings and the burger he'd eaten, still hear Adam and the others trading shaggy-fighter-jet stories. There had even been a cake. He'd gotten the cake himself. Red velvet cake, because that was Adam's favorite, with actual cream-cheese frosting. He'd had to explain to the brain-dead bakery worker that no, he didn't want the buttercream frosting, it wasn't real buttercream, nothing that came out of industrial five-gallon buckets could possibly be natural, especially not when it was that shade of godawful hot pink. He'd literally had to explain to that vacant-eyed man how to take cream cheese and mix it up with sugar, cream, butter, and a teaspoon of vanilla extract to make a proper frosting, and  _no,_ not synthetic vanilla either, the real stuff. The candles had been easier. He'd gotten the color-changing sparklers, because a man like Adam deserved fireworks. Everything Adam  _was_ had deserved fireworks. He had been fearless in the air and bold on the ground, and his desire for adventure had burned visibly in his eyes whenever he had looked up at the stars. Shiro had found that to be irresistible, having had much the same feelings himself.

He remembered Adam laughing with the others, warm brown eyes sparkling behind his glasses in the chiseled face, soft brown hair falling into those eyes, soft brown skin of the hand that flipped that hair away... he'd been the color of well-creamed coffee from top to toe, something that Shiro had also found to be irresistible; Adam had joked on those long, comfortable nights together that Shiro always wanted to add too much cream...

_What happened?_

They would have been married only two weeks from then. Adam's family had been all for it, and Shiro had finally arm-wrestled his very traditional father into accepting the union. Four days after Adam's birthday party, it had all come to an end. Adam had been a fighter pilot and an adventurous soul, and had fought for and won the right to test-pilot a brand-new, experimental fighter jet. Very secret, very high tech... and unfortunately, very unstable.

There was a blare of red light from Keith's end of the wheel. _Oh, shit, Shiro, is that what happened to him? The whole thing was stamped “classified” so fast that we barely knew he'd died!_

Shiro had no words, only the memory. He'd seen it on screen as that sleek silver aircraft had not been able to perform in real life what its blueprints had promised on paper, and even the ejector seat had failed. Four point seven seven three minutes after takeoff, the engines and fuel lines had blown, and the plane had come down in three burning pieces with an impact that Shiro could still feel through his feet on bad nights. In his nightmares, the plane struck pavement again and again, leaving tortured metal and charred bone fragments spread over a half-mile of runway, and a cry for help that would go forever unanswered.

Shiro cried out in anguish and the memory shattered around him, the pieces flying up and away into nowhere. They were falling now, all falling through empty space, cold stars gleaming all around, cold stars that Adam would never see again, cold stars that beckoned him away from the hard earth that had taken the man that he'd loved. The Kerberos Mission had seemed like a miraculous escape for him, and he had accepted Sam Holt's offer with gratitude. Cold stars had accepted him, and had taken him far further from that loss than anyone could ever have guessed--

A sudden flash from above startled them all, and a vast electric crackle roared through the firmament around them. White fire scorched a burning road in a miles-wide descending spiral around them, heading down through the fabric of eternity itself to delineate something that glimmered like a lens carved from a first-quality diamond crystal. In that perfect circle, blurred images formed and faded in a constant rush of color and motion; it was turning, they realized, like a plate on a slow turntable, and as it spun, the images were starting to come into focus. They could not look away from that steadily-brightening disc. Color and shape and motion, light and darkness, hot and cold, sight and sound and scent, taste and pressure and sensation, all coming together into...

...into...

_...into..._

_...Alarms screamed in Allura's ears, and her shocked eyes could not believe what the screens were telling them. Coran was shouting at her, telling her to go, to run while she still had the chance, to escape before that impossible maw found its mark. She turned and fled, knowing that she had no other choice, breath burning in her lungs as she threw herself into the lift. She had just stepped out into the shuttle bay when something struck the Castle a mortal blow; she could feel the craft screaming as its main structural members bent and shattered under the ghastly impact, knocking her to the floor. Eyes blurring, she saw the mice waving at her from one of the smaller pods, and she threw herself into the seat, sending the little craft speeding toward the bay doors just as the entire deck began to collapse behind her..._

_...Hunk yelled in horror at what was happening right before his eyes. The world was going gray, its life force drawn up into a vortex the color of nightmares, drawn inexorably up into the impossibly huge, dark shape of that insane freak. They were dying, all of them were dying, he could feel the whole world dying as that monstrous parasite fed upon it, and he knew that it was too late for them even as he boosted Voltron forward to stop it..._

_...Lance was hurled back into his seat from the force of his accelerations, hard enough to blur his vision, but he did not dare slow down. It was fast, it was too fast, and there was too much of it, all moving at once, all of it lethal. They'd die if it landed another hit, and if they died, it was all over for everyone. Everyone. Everywhere. Everything. His thoughts fuzzed out for a moment as the thing landed a glancing blow on the right arm, and he felt the Sword break..._

_...Pidge shrieked as the Shield shattered with a sound that deafened her for a moment, and she felt her Lion groan at the stunning impact. The calculations came in, belated and terrible on the blurring screens, and she could hear Shiro shouting, but couldn't make out the words. This was worse than anything that she'd ever faced before—she couldn't even crack its shielding because it didn't have any. It didn't_ need  _any, not with what it had seething through its very substance..._

_...Keith was blind with brightness. He couldn't see, but that didn't matter anymore. All he had to do was aim for where the light wasn't. Everything else had faded away. The only sense he had left was sight, and all he could see was a light like burning ice and a darkness like the nothingness between universes. And a sense unnamed, a sense of oneness, a sense of motion, a sense of a thing about to be completed. It had been a long, long time, and a burning joy that was not entirely his own began to well up in his heart..._

_...Shiro staggered to a halt, lungs heaving, his bayard heavy in his hand, and he felt more than saw Modhri coming up beside him. Together they gazed at the sorry, withered remnant that was all that was left of a man who had been the scourge of the cosmos for ten thousand years. As they watched, what had been a skull dropped uselessly from the twisted metal around it like a rotten fruit, shattering into brittle fragments on the warped decking. Modhri knelt and touched the blasted and crumbling bone, and let out a sigh. “Well, she was right about that,” he murmured, and turned worried yellow eyes up to meet Shiro's. “This isn't over yet.”_

“ _I know,” Shiro replied..._

_...and then everything went black._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple things:  
> 1) The "dear Liza" joke was a real conversation. Our mother reads this series, and after reading about Bucket O Shiro, she started singing that. I was the one who screamed in creative frustration because we'd had that scene thought out/written for months and I NEVER THOUGHT OF THAT SONG. I CALL MYSELF A COMEDY WRITER? I AM A SHAM! Spanch thought my little tantrum was hilarious, at least. Mom became Keith, I became Lance, and thus Spanch records my screaming for all of history.  
> 2) I usually like to thank everyone who comments as often as I can, but I just wanted to add extra love for those that wished Spanch a happy birthday last chapter too. You guys are all so sweet and we love you!  
> 3) So yeah...cliffhanger alert. Um. Please don't kill us?


	6. Explanations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last week: Sleep? Don't know 'er.  
> This week: OMG I SLEPT THROUGH FRIDAY!!!  
> So yeah...regular posting schedules are a myth...

Chapter 6: Explanations

“Young man,” a sweet, motherly voice said sternly, “you owe both of those ghosts a very large bottle of sacred Cluoc'kipoma wine.”

Shiro blinked. He was flat on his back on the floor, and it took him a moment to remember who that voice belonged to. He swallowed hard on a dry throat and tried to shake off the strange, otherworldly sensation that floated between his ears. He had dreamed, somewhere in there, that he'd been hoisted up out of a bottomless well on a glowing blue-violet cable that was embedded in his heart. It hadn't hurt, and his only thought had been, _“the Lion goes fishing in the night.”_

He grunted, groaned, and muttered stickily, “I could use a cuppa, myself.”

“Couldn't we all,” a far more familiar voice said, and helped him sit up, holding a glass to his lips. “We'll make do with ordinary water for now,” she said as he gulped gratefully at the drink. “It's not a good idea to let Oracles overindulge.”

Shiro looked up and around at his team. They were awake, but looked as dazed and wrung-out as he felt. Keith was rubbing at streaming eyes and squinting as if he'd been staring into a bright light for too long, Pidge was clutching her head, and Allura had both hands pressed to the floorplates as though she were afraid that they might cease to exist at any second. Lance was sitting with his arms wrapped around himself and his knees drawn up, shivering uncontrollably, and Hunk simply collapsed backwards over his floor pillow with a low moan.

“Holy crud,” Hunk said in a faint voice. “Holy crud, Shiro, is that what it feels like every time?”

“No,” Shiro said, holding his glass out for a refill. “Most of the time they're a lot smaller than that. And a lot more... well... distant. We caught that one close to the source.”

“It felt so real,” Pidge said, shuddering. “We were losing. We were fighting something big, and losing.”

Keith knuckled his reddened eyes and tried to focus on her. “Not from where I was sitting. I was winning.”

“We lost the Castle,” Allura whispered, the pink centers of her eyes still distended. “And possibly Coran.”

Lance scratched at his nose and sent Shiro a sidelong look. “I didn't know that you were gay.”

Shiro puffed the ghost of a laugh at this non sequitur. “Bi, actually. After Adam died, I wasn't interested in anyone at all. It hurt too much to even think about it. Problem?”

Lance shook his head. “Nah, I'm used to it. Half of my family swings that way. The family feuds wouldn't be the same without it. I know that Cousin Maria-Dolores—she's a nun and the family fanatic—wouldn't have anything to get indignant about if they weren't. The sheer boredom would probably make her go off on missions to the Congo, just to have something to do.”

Hunk snorted. “What, Carlos isn't enough for her?”

Lance grunted sourly. “Last I knew, she was praying for the Devil to either get serious with him or give up on him. Either way, she'll need an exorcist. Or a gym coach. Same thing, in our neighborhood.”

Hunk considered that. “True.”

Pidge cast a suspicious look at Keith, who had given up on his dazzled eyes and was leaning on Shiro. “You knew his boyfriend, Keith? My whole family's known Shiro for years, but I didn't know that Adam existed.”

Keith nodded. “Sort of. He lived in a different part of the city and his job involved being out of town a lot. I never saw much of him, but I liked what I saw. After the wreck... well, Shiro needed some time, and I wasn't going to make it worse by talking about him. What's the verdict, Loliqua?”

Loliqua handed him the bowl of cookies, which was passed around and emptied very quickly. “I have seen stronger talents,” she began slowly, and held up a hand when they began to protest. “Stronger, but nowhere near as focused, or as gifted, or as accurate. Shiro, I would judge that your effective range might be as long as seven to ten years in the future, possibly with bursts of reasonably accurate Visions of up to... hmm... perhaps thirty or thirty-five years ahead. I have helped to train those who could see future events of up to six hundred years ahead, but with little or no clarity. For your purposes, ten years is ideal. Leave the long-term planning to those who are trained for it.”

Shiro smiled. “I can live with that. And the gifts?”

The Toad Princess shook her head. “I have never seen such a combination. While Omora Seers do occasionally develop an Oracle's Lens, it is rare. I've never encountered one so perfect. Lizenne, have you any explanations, particularly for that other gift?”

Lizenne sighed and waggled a conditional hand. “Some. I did some historical research in my House's Archives before I left home that last time, just in case I found Tzairona before Modhri did. Tzairona was considered a phenomenal power. At the time, she may have been the most potent Oracle in history, and I am very surprised that the Royal House wasn't able to hire her on as their own personal fortune-teller.” She paused, thought about that, then smirked. “Then again, considering her temperament, she would have turned that safe but dull job down flat, even if they'd offered her the Old Forest and most of the nearby Sarynorax Strand as her private Domain.”

“Good land?” Pidge asked.

“I'd say so,” Lizenne replied. “The Old Forest is sacred ground, and is still held to be inviolable. It's one of the last stretches of undisturbed old-growth forest left on the homeworld, and the wildlife there exists nowhere else. The Sarynorax Strand is equally revered, being a stretch of coastline with large gemstone deposits just under the seafloor. Precious stones wash up on the beach at every high tide.”

“Nice,” Lance observed.

“Very,” Lizenne said. “I've been to both, and they're stunning. Tzairona was never happier than when she was causing trouble for someone, and was glad to leave our homeworld behind. Her early diaries claim that her talent worked best in orbit anyway. The researchers who were studying her sort of gift confirmed that, even though she only rarely held still long enough for them to observe her. That drove them wild, by the way. Oracular talent is very rare among my people, and the Lens might develop in perhaps two percent of those. There used to be more, but Haggar took them to become Druids before they had the chance to bear cubs. As for Zerod's gift... well, I can think of only one similar example.”

“He did tell me that he'd given me someone else's wish,” Shiro said, frowning at the memory. “It was like drinking a thunderbolt.”

“Yes,” Lizenne replied. “A wish for wisdom, granted by someone who had already taken up residence in the Great Beyond. Have your people no equivalent legends, Loliqua?”

“No, nor do our companion people, the Griona.” Loliqua poured cups of tea and passed them on to the Paladins. “According to our legends, the Gods are very prompt when they come to pick up the deceased, and while we do have the usual menagerie of greater and lesser Beasts, Elementals, and Powers, our cultures have no ghost stories at all. Other peoples do, of course, including the Griona, so I've been required to study the topic as part of my diplomatic training.”

“We have plenty,” Lizenne said, leaning back in her seat, “but only one of this nature. It's extremely old, and nearly forgotten. I discovered it only because I had a friend among the staff of the local museum when I was small, and the only authentic copy was carved upon a slab of basalt some fifteen thousand years ago. Perhaps more. The tale tells the story of Jaiphane, a witch of small talent, who was struggling to keep what was left of her pack alive during a terrible famine. The rains had not come for six years in a row because a great Queen at the time had managed to seriously offend the Gods.”

Hunk humphed. “Y'know, that was what always honked me off about the old legends back at home. One person does something dumb, and it's everyone else who has to suffer for it.”

Lizenne snorted a laugh. “Gods aren't terribly good at precision smiting, I'm afraid. In any case, the rivers had dried up and the plants had died, and the herds had moved away. The famine had caused the local packs to begin fighting furiously over what little was left, and packs from neighboring lands were taking advantage of the chaos. Before you ask, the raiders were looking for unattached or widowed women and girls; few things were more precious in those ancient times. Our heroine had already lost most of her pack and her entire Domain to the fighting and raiding, and was desperate for any help that she could find.

“Finally, on a cold and windy morning, she sat on a stone on a hilltop overlooking the sea. It was a very clear day, and she could see islands offshore, very far away. The people knew about fishing at the time, but ocean-going ships were still beyond them, and she wished that she knew how to get to those islands without becoming food for the great _tvonax_ fish, which could swallow three grown men in a single bite. She was quite lost in thought, trying to solve that puzzle, when she found that she had company. Sitting right next to her on that rock was an old woman, who had seemingly appeared out of nowhere.”

“Let me guess,” Keith said, “it wasn't an ordinary old lady.”

Lizenne nodded. “Very much so. I wouldn't be surprised if poor Jaiphane's heart had skipped a beat, for her companion was none other than Old Granny Kashtmehtz the Storm-Witch, the oldest and most dangerous witch in the world. Nothing like as evil as Haggar, but certainly as powerful, and she was lethal when annoyed.”

“We've got one of those,” Shiro said. “Baba Yaga. All of Russia and a lot of Europe used to be terrified of her.”

“Yeah!” Pidge said with a grin. “She had a house that walked around on huge chicken legs, too. I grew up wanting one of those. I still want one of those. Hey, Hunk, next time we get a free day, want to help me build one of those?”

“Oh, heck, yeah,” Hunk replied. “Did Old Granny Kashtmehtz have one of those?”

“Old Granny had other ways of getting around,” Lizenne said, “she never traveled in the same way twice. There are stories of her riding tame whirlwinds, or moving beneath the ground through secret caves, or swinging through the trees, or any of a hundred other methods. This time, she was simply _there,_ which might tell you how annoyed she was, if she hadn't felt like making a grand entrance. Fortunately, she wasn't annoyed at Jaiphane. Jaiphane knew exactly what she was up against, and greeted the old witch politely, and even offered to share the meager bit of jerky and the few stubborn berries that she'd been able to find. Granny accepted both with reasonable grace, and asked her what was troubling her. Jaiphane told her of her family's problems, and Granny nodded and replied that she had troubles of her own. As angry as the Gods were with the Queen, Old Granny was twice as angry at the Gods. Granny's natural affinity was with stormy weather, and that six-year drought had put a real crimp in her style.”

Allura giggled. “Had your Gods reason to fear her wrath, I wonder?”

Lizenne grinned wickedly. “Anyone with any sense did, the Gods included. Old Granny wasn't mortal and she wasn't Divine either; she was a Trickster, and those are always very dangerous to offend. Granny told Jaiphane of a good way to get back at those heavenly fools for their nasty little drought—on that misty island so far out to sea was a magical mirror that had been created by a prankish sea-monster. This mirror was unusual in that it only showed a person's worst features, and that sea-monster had so upset its neighbors with that mirror that they had thrown it up onto the island, where it couldn't be retrieved.”

Lance laughed. “You know, my sister Marcia would've sworn that she had one of those! She was really concerned about her looks during high school, and could never, ever get her makeup perfect, and she swore that her mirror hated her. She finally bullied Dad into taking her to a furniture store, and she spent three hours finding a vanity that she could work with. It cost a lot of money, but he said that he would have paid twice as much just to get out of there.”

Loliqua chortled richly. “And few creatures are as vain as Gods. Why couldn't the old witch get the mirror for herself?”

Lizenne waved an eloquent hand. “Powerful as she was, the sea was more powerful still, and the drought had taken away much of her strength. Granny had little influence upon the sea, and of course had no storms to ride. It was up to Jaiphane to find a way across the water to fetch that mirror, so that Granny could show the Gods what nasty little brats they were being. Jaiphane, of course, had no idea of how to get there, and she was far too busy keeping her kin fed to learn how. Well, Old Granny Kashtmehtz looked upon her with a considering eye, and then told the younger woman a secret. The God Kuphorosk, she said, was not among the perpetrators of the drought. Kuphorosk preferred it when life was abundant, for his favorite prey did best in times of plenty, and the drought had made a lot of extra work for him. Perhaps somewhere on his  _ khe'guon  _ string, he had someone who knew a thing or two about the sea.”

Pidge raised a hand. “Ronok told me about those, and he said that Kuphorosk kept the souls of heroes on his. Heck, Shiro saw him stringing up a few new ones in that Vision of his! What's that all about?”

Lizenne took a sip of tea, her eyes distant. “In our mythology, all living souls pass into and out of the world in a constant cycle of death and rebirth, arguably making Kuphorosk and his sister Huiverash, Goddess of Life, the most important members of the Pantheon. She sent those souls out into the world to become plants, animals, fish, insects, people, and all the things in between. Kuphorosk followed them in their shadows, and took them back into the Realm of Beginnings when they were too old, sick, or injured to outrun him any longer, and they underwent cleansing processes and periods of rest before being sent out again. Just as you might find gems among the pebbles in a river, a few souls would stand out now and again. Those were the heroes, the great ones, the fastest and cleverest, the wisest and most subtle, the people who had slipped out of Kuphorosk's reach time and time again. Kuphorosk treasured those, and kept them safe; every so often, when it became necessary, he would take one or more of those great souls from his string and give them over to his sister, that the heroes would be reborn. Sometimes, rarely, a living mortal could ask to learn secrets from those preserved great ones.”

“Hey, that's like Hades!” Keith said. “He kept visiting hours, too. Did she have to go on a quest?”

“No,” Lizenne said. “Since Kuphorosk is always with us, all a person needs to do is wait until nightfall and perform the proper ritual to get his attention. In this case, the God was perfectly willing to answer, and to help. Among his collection, Shiro, he had someone who had been very like Zerod, and who was willing, for the price of a kiss, to make her up a brew like the one that has been allowing you to catch up so quickly. Jaiphane willingly kissed the old soul, and he produced for her a flask of what the story refers to as the _Liquor of Insight,_ which she drank to the last drop. That frightened her kin, for she fell over unconscious and remained that way for seven days. She woke up hale and hearty, although her aetheric powers were no greater. That didn't matter, for the change had been to the way she looked at the world. From then on, she noticed things that no one else saw, and thought about them in ways that no one else had ever considered; in less than a month, she had taken her whole family out to that distant island in a boat whose hull had been treated with a potion of bhelurg tar and fermented coraph-wood shavings, which repelled the great sea-predators that would otherwise have devoured them. True to her word, Jaiphane retrieved the mirror for Old Granny Kashtmehtz, who was so happy that she granted the island to Jaiphane as her Domain, and promised never to trouble her or her descendants. The rains returned a few days later, and Jaiphane and her family settled down in peace and prosperity, and that is where the story ended.”

“That's... very interesting. There really haven't been any others like that?” Shiro asked.

She shook her head. “No. Most of our ancient heroic tales involve people hitting things instead of using their wits. Archaeological studies in that region where the basalt slab was found have turned up traces of ancient habitations on those islands, and artifacts of unusual sophistication; from their findings and certain old stories still told on the mainland, there was once an influential maritime civilization based there. Unfortunately, there were also signs of a very large tsunami, caused by the collapse and explosion of a volcanic island on the other side of the sea roughly twelve thousand years ago, which had wiped those islanders out. Powerful though Old Granny Kashtmehtz was, she had little authority over the ocean.”

“So much for Galra-Atlantis,” Keith said grimly. “It's a cool story, but we've gotten off-topic. What sort of training does Shiro need?”

Loliqua gave Shiro a thoughtful look. “The basics, I feel. Focusing techniques, pacing exercises, meditative mantras for enhancing clarity, and especially volume control. Every time you have a large Vision, young man, you light up the Mindscape like an explosion! I shouldn't be surprised if every practitioner within eighty lightyears of here felt that last one. Haggar might well be able to detect such upheavals, and it would be wise to muffle them a bit.”

Shiro nodded in full agreement. “And beyond that?”

“Beyond that, I cannot help you,” the Princess said sadly. “Between the Lens, the Liquor, and the Lions, you will have all of the resources that you need. You have made remarkable progress already; I can help you fine-tune it, but that's all.”

Shiro clenched his right hand into a fist, recalling uneasily where the mechanical one was right now. “I'll take whatever help that you can give me, and thank you.”

“You are quite welcome,” Loliqua said, but she waved a warning finger at him. _“After_ you have rested. That was not a small effort that you have all just made, for all that you shared it out beautifully between you. For now, you must relax and come to grips with what you have Seen. That Vision had the feel of a Stone, and those are never to be taken lightly.”

Hunk stared at her in confusion. “A Stone?”

The Princess nodded. “Time is something like an ocean, or perhaps a large river. It is a great current made up of untold billions of lesser currents, and there are countless eddies and counter-flows, whirlpools, rapids, backwashes, and doldrums caught up within it. Mostly, it is very fluid and will change as events act upon it. Sometimes, however, certain destinies will arise like boulders in the stream, events too large and important to shift or to change. No matter what measures the ones forewarned take, those events  _ will  _ happen, and there is nothing that will stop them from taking place. In all of my years, I have Seen two. The first occurred in my girlhood, and concerned an earthquake under the southern pole of my home planet. The second occurred only two years ago, when Voltron reemerged from hiding. You have Seen another just now.”

Allura banged a fist on the floor. “We are not the first to See it. Tzairona Saw it first—Jasca told us that! A space station that did not exist  _ at that time,  _ that turned into something completely impossible, and bit the Castle in half!”

Loliqua cocked her an interested look. “Were you able to See which space station that was?”

“No,” Allura said, deflating a bit, and then glanced around at the others. “The Vision wasn't clear enough. All I can say for sure is that it had a very large mouth. Were any of you able to see anything?”

The other Paladins looked at each other, and shrugged. “Nope,” Lance said unhappily. “It was big, and... and powerful, and really nasty, and that was it.”

“It was sucking the Quintessence out of a planet in mine,” Hunk offered. “It looked a little familiar, somehow, but I can't think why. There were all of these--” he wiggled his fingers helplessly, “--things sticking out of it, and waving around, and, and, and I can't really describe what I saw. It was bad, though. Really bad. Worse than anything we've ever faced before.”

“Super bad,” Pidge agreed. “It didn't need shielding, and I couldn't touch it.”

“I think that we killed it, somehow, or will, but that wasn't the end of it.” Shiro frowned at the floor. “There was something else, and I don't know what that was. Did you see anything, Keith?”

Keith shrugged. “Light and darkness. Just light and darkness, and I was winning. I felt good about it.” He scowled thoughtfully. “So did someone else. Not sure who, but it had been a long time coming.”

“How long?” Lizenne asked suddenly. “And can you say when we will encounter that Stone?”

Keith stared at her in perplexity for a moment, but shook his head. “A long, long time coming. Someone's been waiting for ages. As for when it's going to happen...”

“Soon,” Shiro said, suddenly absolutely sure of every word. “Not very soon, but not too long from now. I can't say for sure.”

“And that is one of the exercises that I will teach you,” Loliqua said firmly, “Estimated Time to Event, which will help you to judge the timeframe of your Visions. I will do that tomorrow, and not a moment sooner. You have already done enough today, sir. Come, let us find the rest of the family and tell them what we have discovered.”

The rest of the family was, at that moment, seeing to an important duty. They had been very patient, Tilla and Soluk had informed them, they were willing to concede that alien invasions and dramatic space battles had their place, but their patience was not infinite. It was time and past time for a good polishing, and the upright bipeds of the household were required to oblige. The dragons had calmly but firmly overridden all protests and had herded everybody down to the lounge, where they had fetched the brushes and had flopped down to collect their due. As a result, Nasty, Vennex, and Trenosh were getting a lesson in Zampedran maintenance.

“I admit, we are a bit behind in our duties to these big beasts,” Coran was saying as he scrubbed diligently at Soluk's shoulders. “But things just keep happening, one after another. Even so, Grandfather would have scolded us all terribly. He could get a dragon half again Tilla's size polished up in a trice all by himself, and was very proud of the fact that he could do this all day and still win an arm-wrestling championship in the evening, right up to the age of one hundred and ninety-two decaphebes. He would have cheerfully continued to do so until his dying day, but an industrial accident at a building site put a bit of a dent in him, and he had to give it up.”

Nasty, who was working on Soluk's tail with all four hands, gave Coran a suspicious look. “The dragon-polishing?”

“The arm-wrestling. Pop-Pop loved Zampedri, and wasn't going to let something as piddling as six or seven crushed bones separate him from his big prickly friends. Or the little ones, for that matter. He was very fond of the youngsters. Speaking of such, how are you coming along with the littlest dragon, lad?”

“As well as can be expected,” Vennex replied.

He was sitting cross-legged on the floor with his elbow braced on one knee and his chin in his hand, brushing Ranax out with the other. Ranax, having had no luck whatsoever with trying to conquer the mighty dragons, had figured that if he couldn't beat them, he might as well join them. He had taken to bumbling around on all fours at Tilla's heels lately, and listening to him trying to  _ gronk _ was hilarious. He, too, had demanded a polishing, and once again, Vennex was required to provide. He sort of had to; Tilla had claimed Zaianne, Trenosh, and Modhri for the service and wasn't about to share. Ranax, for his part, was enjoying the brushing as much as the dragons were, sprawled out on his belly and purring happily, and had already half-filled the brush with shed fur. His toy was sitting nearby, and Vennex had a sinking feeling that Ranax would insist that he brush it, too.

“At least we're doing it in the dry,” Trenosh said, burnishing the small scales around Tilla's eyes. “My aunt ran a remolp-beast ranch, and she insisted upon keeping them clean and shiny. Remolps love a good mud wallow, and we had to hose them down and scrub them off in all weathers. Whenever my brothers and I complained, she would tell us that it would toughen us up. Since that woman could put a fist through a sheet of armor plate, we believed her.”

“It paid off,” Zaianne observed, scrubbing dirt out of Tilla's thigh scales. “You're alive.”

“I am,” Trenosh said, sobering a little and glancing down at his son, who had rolled over and was getting a good belly-scratch in. “More importantly, my son survived. Have you any idea, my Lady, when we will go to Arcobi? My family wants us back as soon as possible, for all that we've given them plenty of work to keep them occupied with.”

Zaianne sighed and glanced up at Coran, who shrugged. “I don't know. Making plans on this ship is a bit problematic. The Paladins are unbelievable trouble-magnets, and sometimes it takes only a word or a thought to attract it.”

Nasty humphed sourly as he very carefully cleaned the lethal arcs of Soluk's hind claws. “I'll say, and it doesn't diminish much if you split them up. Before Varda was taken aboard the  _ Quandary, _ we sometimes went for weeks without any excitement. We actually had time to get  _ bored, _ if you can believe it! Boredom! Real, honest-to-Lawsy, sit-around-and-bemoan-it boredom. I've forgotten what that's like, you know? The first thing she did was charm old Ronok, who had been surly and standoffish for years, and then she insults Plosser into keeping her, and then Yantilee euchres me into teaching her craft secrets, and then... well, then everything. And now the  _ Quandary's  _ the flagship of a huge battlefleet, I'm still teaching her craft secrets, and I'm giving a dragon a pedicure.”

Modhri chuckled and waved a brush at him. “And would you give it up for even a moment?”

Nasty glared at him. “Not until I get all of the silverware. I  _ will _ have the whole set, I swear it by the Seventh Lockpick of Polura the Light-Fingered. I've only got one butterknife and a dessert fork to go.”

“Soon to be just the butterknife, I feel,” Coran said cheerfully and pointing off to the right, “assuming that you're flexible enough. What's that thing that Plachu's just dragged under the red couch?”

Nasty squawked and dove for the sofa, his four brushes clattering to the floor. Since the Paladins had found themselves in need of crash space if aetheric practice had left them too worn out to make it to their rooms, Coran and Modhri had thoughtfully hauled more accommodating furniture out of storage for them. The red couch was a real find, being a huge, ornate poem in some sort of highly-polished and skillfully-carved metallo-wood. Beneath its thickly-cushioned and plush, ruby-toned upholstery it was a marvel of engineering, being able to support even the weightiest of  _ grande dames _ while still being light enough to move. In short, the thing was mostly open space inside, crisscrossed with innumerable struts, pistons, springs, and braces, and it was a natural jungle gym for the mice. Nasty was small enough—barely—to fossick around inside it without getting permanently stuck... so long as nobody sat down, anyway.

Vennex rolled his eyes and took up where Nasty had left off on Soluk's hindquarters while derisive squeaks and muffled swearing began to emanate from the furniture. Ranax squeaked indignantly at this dereliction of duty, and then went to investigate the ruckus that was breaking out under the couch.

Tilla grunted sympathetically and gave Vennex's ear a gentle lick, making him smile. Despite Nasty's agreeing to babysit, it was Vennex who usually had to look after the rambunctious cub when Trenosh was busy with other things, and Tilla knew very well how tiresome that could be. “I need to go home as well,” he murmured, digging dust and flakes of dead skin out from between Soluk's leg scales and making the huge reptiloid rumble happily. “If I don't, Mom might send someone out after me.”

“We'll get there,” Zaianne said soothingly. “Kheriphor is well within our range at the moment, and Yantilee is too wary a tactician to pursue her goals too boldly. We have time enough to make a side trip, if the conditions look right. Just how faithful to his duty is your Garrison Fleet commander?”

Vennex frowned thoughtfully at Soluk's gleaming, sandy-colored scales. “Reasonably, last I knew. They'll go after pirates like a shot, since they're allowed to keep whatever loot the pirates are carrying, but actually protecting their assigned planets bores them. I know that the fleet captains have been overcharging the big trade ships for escort services, and their record where it comes to fighting off Gantarash invasions...” he shuddered. “Well, it's not the best. Not since Modhri left.”

Modhri cast a worried look at his adoptive nephew. “Didn't anyone take up that duty after I was called away? A Gantarash ship-clan is no small threat.”

Vennex shook his head and scrubbed angrily at Soluk's shin. “There isn't any honor in fighting vermin. Especially big, stinky vermin who want to eat you. If the Gantarash take a ship within his jurisdiction, the Commander won't bother to pursue them unless someone onboard has relatives or business contacts that might be... you know, _grateful_ for a rescue attempt. Mom says that our client list has been shifting toward the military for years now, because the big trading firms don't like the risk-to-profit rating that our System's got. A lot of people miss you, Uncle.”

Modhri muttered a curse. “Who commands that fleet now?”

“Ghwarask Kalchox'Roh,” Vennex replied bluntly. “Mom told me that he got the rank through Right of Challenge.”

“Oh,” Modhri grunted in disgust. “Him. One of Narax's little hangers-on, and one who held me in contempt. He did not like it that a mere ship's technician could rise to command, having himself been unable to, despite having come from a family that had been warriors since before our people discovered spaceflight. It doesn't surprise me that he could not achieve rank in any other way than to challenge his commander to a duel to the death. Who was his predecessor?”

Vennex growled under his breath. “Kambar Dhurak'Ram, and right before him it was Chrax Orakh'Har, and before him was Iraz Nattak'Nolp, and before him...” he broke off the litany with a sigh. “Let's just say that we _really_ miss you, Uncle Modhri.”

Coran hummed disapprovingly and fingered his mustache. “Sounds like Zarkon was using your colony as a dumping ground for bad officers. Not an uncommon practice, I fear. Alfor and his team had all sorts of problems with talentless brass during their adventures. How'd you wind up out there, Modhri?”

“Politics,” Modhri said. “Many of the members of the Military High Command are from wealthy, titled, and influential Lineages, and they didn't like being shown up by a complete nobody, particularly one who wasn't interested in murdering his colleagues for the right to retain his rank. I volunteered for that post, remote though it was, because it got me out of that den of savages. Alas, there were more savages awaiting me.”

“Another problem that we often ran into.” Coran knocked flakes of dragon dandruff out of his brush and continued nostalgically. “We encountered so many noble fellows of humble origin serving in distant posts that Blaytz kept scorecards—a bit like that Human game, 'Bingo', I think they call it—and every time he filled out a card, he'd treat himself to a bottle of Rejolian brandy from the stash that he kept in his room. He usually shared it with the fellow who'd won him that bottle, too. T'was only fair. Half the time, it was their savages that were causing the trouble.”

Modhri chuckled. “Trust me, Coran, I would have given a great deal to have you and your friends drop by to rid me of mine. I certainly could have used a sip of the brandy. Speaking of that, I wonder how our own Paladins are doing.”

Soluk vented a deep rumble, following that up with a long string of clicks and rattles that sounded like nothing much to their guests' untrained ears, but made Zaianne, Modhri and Coran look at him sharply. Modhri in particular stared in disbelief at the big dragon, visibly shaken. “Is that possible?” he whispered.

Tilla uttered a cheerful whistle and nipped at his sleeve playfully before resting her head on her forepaws.

Trenosh stared at the dragons in confusion. “What did they say?”

Zaianne humphed. “As far as I can make out, they're doing remarkably well. Shiro already had considerable talent before Tzairona and Zerod gave him their little gifts, and those in addition to what he got from the black Lion are combining in ways never seen before by mortalkind, particularly when all six Paladins have linked up their powers. Tilla says that just because it's never happened before, it doesn't mean that it can't. To put it simply, the lot of them are now loaded for saber-toothed pecholga, and they may very well need to be. Coran, before it all came crashing down, did your people know of any person or persons quite like Zarkon and Haggar?”

Coran opened his mouth to expound, paused, closed it, and thought very hard for a minute or two before answering. “Not without going into the realm of myth and legend, no. Alfor and his team fought a few tyrants who certainly considered themselves to be in their class, but looking back on it, I can't say that they matched up. Certainly not in sheer scope and size. As far as I know, there has never been a single Empire that was so big, or had lasted so long under a single ruler. Now, it is possible that the Ancients might have known someone similar, and Lizenne did say that the Szaracan Cluster was once a war zone unlike any other. We did find one civilization that was sort of comparable, but only when you take scale into account.”

“How do you figure that?” Vennex asked.

“Well, the people involved were about this big--” Coran pinched his fingers together to suggest a race of beings that topped out at a quarter-inch, “--and their planet was not only inhabited fully on the surface, right up into the tallest trees on the highest mountains, but also riddled with densely-populated underground cave systems that went very nearly to the core. Even had floating nations on, in, and beneath the surface of every body of water, too. They'd evolved to thrive in every environment that their world had, and then some! That planet _was_ their universe, lad, and they did have a reasonably evil empire that intended to own all of it. The Imperial Family's ambitions—and indeed, the Family itself—eventually came to an ignominious end with the Paladins' help. Trigel's end, to be precise, when she sat down on a certain rock without checking it for occupancy first, and, well... _squish_. She was terribly upset about that, and was never able to get the stains out of her favorite trousers, either. Nevertheless, we were hailed as heroes from pole to pole and top to bottom; the fireworks displays alone were wonderful, even if you did have to use a magnifier to watch them properly. Great days.”

A burst of odd noises distracted them all at that point; Ranax had retrieved his toy and was now bouncing up and down on the seat of the red couch and hooting with evil glee, his toy honking right along with him while paint-peeling profanity, indignant rodent squeals, and various _sprongs_ and _twangs_ from the couch's interior rigging emanated from beneath. There was a loud thump, a small thump, and a metallic clatter, and then Nasty and Plachu, both of them all over dustbunnies, slid out from beneath the couch.

“You,” Nasty declared irritably, waving the dessert fork at the giggling cub, “will one day be someone's evil overlord, and I will become the bane of your existence. I will hotwire your ground vehicles, fill the jets of your aircars with gravel, and steal all of the yurosk powder from the kitchen. You will apologize right now, you little brat, or I will also replace all of your trousers with Torlune kilts and bobble socks. The sparkly socks, pal, and the kilts with the little color-changing lights!”

“ _Eeeek!”_ Plachu said, vowing vengeance as well. _“Squeak eek eek ip phiff!”_

Ranax laughed uproariously, propped himself up on all fours to assume a draconic stance, said _“Gweeek!”_ , and then followed that up with one of Tilla's signature wet raspberries.

Trenosh shook his head dolefully. “His sister will have to spend a great deal of time civilizing him. Well, we do carry first-aid supplies and earplugs in our store, but the sooner we get home, the better.”

“Can't be soon enough for me,” Nasty said sourly, dusting himself and the mouse off and then checking the fork for damage. “He reminds me of the neighbor kids back home. Their parents ran an amusement park, and those little monsters grew up half-feral under the carousels. Once, a team of Galra enforcers tried to bust up an unregistered gambling ring that had been renting space in the back of a ring-toss booth. Dumb idea. Those kids took one look at those clumsy purple bullies and their ugly robots clomping into their turf, and what did they think of that? I'll tell you what they thought. They thought, _'fresh meat',_ 'cause--”

“Because you were right there with them,” Pidge said, walking into the room with the rest of the team behind her. “You even still have the squad leader's badge and master-access card. You showed them to me once, remember?”

Nasty grinned at her and tucked the fork safely away in a belt pouch. “Yup. Those guys had been stripped down to their underwear by the time they escaped, and last I knew, bits of the Sentries were still being used as decorations in the Haunted House. So, how did your conference go? Hey, dead guy, you look like you've been stealing loose change out of Time's back pocket.”

Shiro gave him a tolerant look. “Yes, actually. Some of that change includes a gigantic space monster and the destruction of the Castle. It's going to happen no matter what we do to stop it.”

“ _What?!”_ Coran squawked, and had to catch himself on Soluk's spines to keep himself from tumbling to the floor. “Lose the Castle? We can't lose the Castle, it's an heirloom! It was specifically designed to meet the needs of the Royal Family both on- and off-planet, and was specially retrofitted to house the Lions. We can't replace it if we lose it! Even fixing the silly old thing requires a minor miracle, as we've recently seen. Lose the Castle? Preposterous! Besides, I keep all of my things here.”

Hunk plodded over and sat down heavily on the red couch, tickling Ranax behind one ear. “Shiro says that we'll probably survive it. If so, Pidge and I can use the parts to rebuild. I'm trying not to get excited about the possibilities of that, 'cause it's bad of me, you know? And Pidge wants to build a chicken house.”

Coran stared at him owlishly. “A what?”

“A Baba Yaga house,” Pidge said firmly, plopping down next to Hunk and tickling Ranax behind the other ear. “A small cottage that travels around on big bird legs. I've already got the piston-and-gyros system figured out, but I don't have the energy right now to do anything about it. The session went fine, guys, but it showed us some stuff that we weren't expecting...”

By the time that the Paladins were done telling that tale, Modhri wasn't the only one feeling a bit shaken up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter, but it will set things up for a lot of fun stuff later, I promise! Meanwhile, just enjoy the preciousness that is Littlest Dragon Ranax. ^_^


	7. Preparations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is officially impossible to post at normal sane times of day, it seems. XD I blame the night shift. AND my brother, for downloading a revamped snazzy version of Secret of Mana to Spanch's computer. This has slowed production down a touch, and she tells me she will continue typing after she's saved the world from the Mana Beast. I have no room to argue, as I said the same thing about Kefka from FF6.

Chapter 7: Preparations

It was several days later, and the Castle was finally on the move.

The Paladins had had to stay by Jeproba for a little time at the Fleet's request, just to make sure that the System stayed safe until the locals got the hang of the warships that Pidge had stolen for them. That didn't bother the Paladins much; Shiro and his team spent much of his time with Loliqua, learning those techniques that would give him some control over his wild talent; Pidge and Hunk immured themselves in the lab to play with power tools whenever Nasty wasn't tutoring them in villainous activities, and Zaianne made sure that everybody got their exercise.

Their guests were kept busy as well in the meantime, making sure that the nascent supply network wouldn't fail at the first signs of stress. Trenosh and Vennex had done their best, and so far, everything looked good. It was a great comfort to both of them that Coran allowed them to contact their families every so often, and Vennex in particular was glad to inform his mother that he would be home soon.

“ _Finally,”_ she said, just a touch acidly, although her expression on the screen was one of relief. _“The Military just got around to letting us know that you're officially dead, and have sent us your effects and pay packet, small as it was. We're disputing the death ruling, but we won't be able to hammer it through the Magistrate's Office until you're home. They might want us to bring you in for a debriefing, although they've largely given up on that sort of thing. Everyone returned home by the Ghost Fleet has had little to tell them, unless they were officers. For once, Harzat can't chide you for laziness, Vennex.”_

Vennex puffed a faint laugh. His brother had been very disappointed in him when he had given up on achieving rank. “I'm perfectly willing to let the brass take the brunt for once, Mom. Let them go on thinking that I spent the past few weeks in a cell on the _Quandary._ Anything else will just get us all in trouble.”

She nodded. _“We know. A few of my brothers are still unsure of the business ventures that you've lined up for us, but our Matriarch is all for it.”_

“Is she?” Vennex asked, very surprised; his grandmother was a hard-eyed businesswoman to the core, and wary of sudden change. “I would have thought--”

His mother cut him off with a wave of her hand. _“She's had a look at the regional statistics, and has run the profit-to-risk calculations through the main computer down at the Bureau of Commerce. If events progress as she thinks they will, your work out there and especially the alliance you've forged with Trenosh's Lineage has opened up a nice broad path to survival for us.”_

_That_ took him aback. “S... survival? What do you mean?”

“ _You've told us a good deal of what the Paladins and their friends are actually up to,”_ his mother said, her eyes solemn. _“Mother took that into account when she ran the figures. Our business depends absolutely upon the stability of the Empire. If that stability is disrupted, and it will be, then it is in our best interests to move the business elsewhere as soon as possible. Uncle Thrant is currently looking for a new place for us on Arcobi.”_

“Arcobi?” Vennex said faintly, shocked by the sudden action that his family was taking.

“ _Oh, yes. It's an advantageous location, the business and sales tax rates are lower there than on Kheriphor, and the area could really use a shipping company with our level of expertise. We won't abandon Kheriphor entirely; a few of our managerial staff are bucking for promotion, and this will be as good a test of their skills as anything. The Ghost Fleet does intend to take control of the Systems near the Arcobi System, doesn't it?”_

Vennex nodded numbly. “It's right between two major trade hubs. Yantilee wants them both serving the Coalition instead of the Empire. If they can take both the Rakshane and the Poberantha Market Hubs, the Empire will lose economic control of the entire Sector, and probably a lot more than that. A lot more, since the locals won't have to rebuild much. Yantilee is very good at taking her targets intact.”

His mother smiled. _“Something that our own Military never got the hang of. Mother is actually quite excited about the move. She's been considering relocating us for some time, and... hmmm... she rather likes the look of one of Trenosh's uncles.”_

Vennex couldn't help but laugh at that. His grandfather had died in a bar fight when Vennex had been very small, and his grandmother had never remarried. It was comforting to think that they would have a warm welcome on a strange world, and a firm alliance was always a good thing. “That's all right, then. I should be home in a day or two, and then they'll drop off Trenosh and Ranax. Should I ask them to help with the house-hunting?”

“ _Mother's potential boyfriend is already searching the listings,”_ his mother said with a naughty smile. _“He likes the look of her as well, you see. We await you with all eagerness, Vennex. I warn you, your sister and brothers will want to hear every last little detail of your adventure. Atretha is bitterly envious that you got to share a ship with the Rogue Witch.”_

Vennex looked up and over to where that particular woman was having a private discussion with the Toad Princess of Omorog. “On and off. Maybe she'll come down with Uncle Modhri to meet all of you. The Paladins can't, for obvious reasons, but those two have ways of disguising themselves that have to be seen to be believed. They won't be able to stay long, of course, but--”

“ _Even a glimpse of the woman herself would delight your sister beyond all measure. She still hasn't forgiven Haggar for what happened to Telanir, and I personally can't blame her.”_

Vennex shuddered. Telanir had been a powerful witch, and a great friend of his sister's despite being twice her age. Haggar had summoned the talented young woman to the Center to assess that power, which had excited them both very much, and Atretha had been ecstatic when her best friend had been judged to be worthy of joining the Druids. That had not lasted. Telanir had never returned, nor had she sent any messages. Atretha had traveled all the way to the Center the moment that her mother had deemed her old enough to take that long a trip on her own, and had been horrified at what she'd seen there. Telanir had been destroyed, she'd said when she'd come back. All that was left of her was a semi-physical shell and her power, and even those had been twisted all out of recognition. The thing that had been Telanir had not recognized Atretha, nor had it been interested in making friends, or in anything but serving its mistress. Atretha had cried for weeks over the loss, and was perfectly willing to cheer on anyone who sought to destroy the Emperor's witch.

“I'll see what I can do,” Vennex promised. “If nothing else, Modhri wants to meet up with you again, if only to say hello.”

She smiled a little wistfully. _“If I had not been in mourning for your father and brothers, I might have courted him myself. He was among the finest men that I have ever seen. It will be good to see him again, if only for a little time. Tell Lizenne that she has excellent taste in men. Ah. I need to go, my son; I've a meeting in a few minutes that I can't afford to skip.”_

Vennex heaved a sigh. “All right Mom. I love you.”

“ _I love you too, Vennex. Come home safe.”_

“I will, Mom,” he murmured, and cut the connection.

The screen went blank, and Vennex sat there quietly for a moment, absorbing the news that he'd been given. While he was happy that his grandmother had found love again, for all that she was probably too old to give her new man cubs, to have the whole Lineage up and move to a planet that he'd never seen before was a bit much. Above all, his family wasn't displeased with him, and intended to make the most of what he'd done for them. It was a little overwhelming, and he jumped in surprise when he felt a hand come to rest upon his shoulder. Looking up, he saw the amphibious but motherly features of one of the high officials of a planet that he'd always wanted to visit.

“Yes, Princess?” he asked.

“Loliqua,” she said gently. “My rank does not matter at the moment. Your family will do well by your actions.”

That wasn't a question, he realized, and remembered that certain rumors had been floating around this woman for a very long time. “I think so. They think so, too. Look... um... is it true that you can tell the future? Shiro can, and...” he paused, giving her an apologetic look. “Things tend not to happen by accident around here.”

Loliqua giggled and gave his shoulder a gentle little pat. “You are completely correct. The Fates themselves are tied around this ship in a neat bow knot, aren't they? Yes, dear, I am an Oracle, although I will ask you not to speak of that in any place where that might get back to our Governor. Haggar dislikes having such talents cropping up among the subject races, and we would rather not have her coming by and causing trouble.”

Vennex smiled shyly at her. “I wouldn't either. I'll stay quiet about it.”

“Good. You are a man of your word, I feel.” She paused, looking thoughtful for a long moment, her eyes staring into some unknown distance in a way that he had seen once before, when Shiro had had a Vision right in front of him. The look was unmistakable, although it didn't seem to bother Loliqua much; she came back from whatever future had caught her attention, blinked slowly, and then winked at him. “It will stand you in good stead. You will be very busy for a time, getting your household and family settled into their new home, but you will not be sorry for it. Everything that you have done in life has been done well, young man, and those things that you will do in the coming seasons will benefit many. Indeed, whole worlds will be deeply grateful for your hard work.”

Vennex stared at her, aware that he'd just had his fortune read by a seasoned professional. “Really?”

She nodded. “There is a very good likelihood, yes. Merely progress in the manner in which you began, and you will be rewarded. The reward will often be more work, of course, but that's always the way of it, eh? I've been doing the same sort of work for over three centuries, and so I should know. It can be a great bother, but it's worth it in the end.”

Vennex thought about the Fringe colonies, poor and unimportant and in real danger of losing their Imperial protectors. If those fleets left them, predators and slave raiders would depopulate those colonies totally within the year, if they didn't simply starve to death first.

“You're right,” he whispered, shivering at that dreadful possibility. “Hunk's right, too, about us keeping things stable. I'll do my best.”

“That is all that may be asked of you,” Loliqua said, and then paused again, as though an inspiration had struck. “Fourteen months,” she said firmly, “from this very day.”

“What?” he asked, confused.

She tapped a finger on the comm terminal. “Fourteen Arcobian months from today, you must contact me at the Spring Palace upon Omorog, and no later than the third hour after noon, your time. We will forge a business agreement that will be absolutely vital to the well-being of four other planets within the Bamnapos Sector, and will ensure prosperity for not only my world, but your family and Trenosh's into seeming perpetuity. I cannot perceive the details, but will be very important for both of us.”

Trenosh reached for a nearby scratch pad and wrote himself a note, to which Loliqua added her contact information; with trembling hands, he folded the precious paper and tucked it carefully into an inside pocket. “Thank you,” he murmured.

“You are quite welcome,” she replied easily.

A moment later, they felt the Castle surge slightly around them, and they turned to watch the lounge's windows as the view outside showed the fluid, luminous blue of a wormhole transition. After a little time, the view cleared, showing stars that were achingly familiar. They were well out from Kheriphor, of course, and even as he watched, their pilots were easing them into the thickest part of what was probably the outer asteroid ring. Lazy though the local Garrison might be, they would leap instantly at the chance to take the Castle.

“How long?” he asked.

“Perhaps a day or two,” Lizenne said, walking up to get a good look at the planet coming into view, shining like a gem in the deeps of space. “Your family has offered us the use of one of their courier-craft landing pads, but the timing is tight. Trenosh might want to come down with us and meet your folks as well. You'll have long enough to bid us all a fond farewell, at least.”

That was actually something of a joke. Despite everything his hosts had done to make him feel a part of the team, a sense of unreality had plagued him nonstop since he had come out of the healpod that first time. He saw in her eyes that she understood how he felt, and that she sympathized with him.

“It's all right,” she said quietly, “some days, I look back upon my own adventures and I cannot believe that they actually happened. I have broken every rule, defied numerous laws of magic, society, and physics, faced insurmountable odds and overcame them with relative ease. I have seen the impossible done and have done a bit of it myself, and some mornings I gaze into the mirror and see the legendary heroines of the old tales in my reflection. It can be a bit unnerving.”

“You've never lost heart, though,” Vennex said.

She shook her head ruefully. “I keep it in Modhri, and he keeps his in me. We are each other's shadows.”

Vennex blushed at that very personal admission, and she smiled at his sudden confusion. “I've come close to losing him a few times, and my courage along with him, and those near-misses have hardened my resolve. I _will_ see this through, no matter what, and soon; I want cubs, and I can't do that until my oath of _kheshveg_ is resolved. Selfish, I know, but no one's children will be safe until Zarkon's and Haggar's power is broken.”

He stared at her, the reason coming clear at last. _Of course_ she saw the wild women of the old legends in her mirror—she was becoming a legend herself! So were Modhri, the Paladins, the Captains of the Ghost Fleet, and everyone around them. Everyone who had ever come in contact with the Lions shared the same fate. He had the sudden sensation of riding a Leviathan, a force so huge and powerful that one couldn't even feel that it was there until it changed direction. He hadn't seen it until now for the same reason that deep-sea fish never noticed tidal waves. For a little time, he had been a part of it, and was a part of it still. He would be a part of that legend for the rest of his life, and that knowledge straightened his spine and squared his shoulders. Ten thousand years from now, the children of future trading Houses would ask for the story of the man who had survived the wrath of both Hoshinthra and Gantarash, and who had saved whole worlds in his own quiet way.

Lizenne smiled. “That's better.”

Vennex vented a breathless laugh and smiled sheepishly at her. “I should have done this earlier, but I couldn't get up enough courage. Modhri's been my uncle for years, but I never got around to claiming you as my aunt.”

Her golden eyes twinkled humorously at him. “And would you want an aunt such as I, who is wild and lawless; who is liable to make a scene at parties and corrupt young minds with strange and fascinating ideas?”

Vennex thought about that for a moment. His own upbringing had been very prosaic, in its way. He'd had the standard schooling and the same basic training as thousands of other children just like him, and up until the disaster that had cost him his father and brothers, he had seemed destined for an unexciting life of managing cargo shipments. And then Modhri had pulled him out of a cage on a ship made by monsters...

Would he cringe from his fate, or embrace it?

He embraced her, letting that gesture say it all. She returned it, accepting him as he had accepted her, brushing the small scales on one cheekbone with fond fingertips and murmuring, “I really will give your children ideas, you know. The Empire prefers its citizens to be docile and law-abiding, even when the laws are unfair and repressive. Any little grandniece or grandnephew of mine will learn to challenge the comfortable norm, and to seek freedom for themselves and for others.”

Vennex smiled. “It's working already—my sister really wants to meet you. You think that I'll have children for you to corrupt?”

She let him go, giving him an enigmatic smile that was nonetheless kind. “That's up to you. Show that good heart of yours to a fine young lady, should you find one that is worthy of it, and if she has any sense at all she'll accept that gift in a trice. Any hints, Loliqua?”

Loliqua had been watching this exchange with open delight, but had to gesture a negative. “Not at this time, but patience will bring its own reward. Come now, Vennex, you will need to make your farewells, and Hunk will want to give you a box of cookies for your family. I am sure that everybody here will miss you.”

“I'll miss them too,” he said, and realized with some surprise that he meant it.

The dropoff went quickly and without incident, thankfully, despite the high concentration of traffic in the Kheriphor System, and its fairly heavy military presence. Everyone had shaken Vennex's hand and wished him well, and Lizenne and Modhri had taken him down to the planet in one of the _Chimera's_ shuttles. They had stayed a few hours and had come back without raising any alarms, and both of them looked pleased with themselves upon their return.

“It all went very smoothly,” Modhri told them with a fond smile when they had reconvened on the bridge. “They welcomed us like long-lost family and we were on our best behavior the whole time. Vennex's little cousins stole all the cookies, Hunk, but their mothers thank you for sending along the recipes.”

Lizenne smirked. “His sister's a clever one, too, and has the makings of a potent witch. I gave her a few tricks and tips to play with and laid down a few guidelines. If necessary, we can count on aid from that quarter, so long as we don't ask for anything too extravagant.”

“Good to know,” Shiro said, and nodded at Trenosh. “We'll be heading to Arcobi next. Will you need anything before we go?”

Trenosh shook his head and shifted his grip on his son, who was gnawing ferociously on his sleeve. “I need to be reunited with my family. Nothing else could matter half so much. Perhaps the Princess might prefer to take her leave before we get too far from her own world...?”

“A sensible suggestion,” Loliqua commented. “I should get back home soon, and preferably before another unexpected adventure rolls along, or before I go wild with envy.” Loliqua leveled a disapproving look at Shiro, who returned it with an apologetic smile. “This young man owes his ghostly friends an entire barrel of sanctified liquor, Zerod in particular! He learns in minutes what it took me years to master, and I can hear that Lion of his laughing at me whenever I expect him to have difficulty with his lessons. I cannot fathom the means by which he is being rushed into proficiency so quickly! I simply have nothing more to teach him.”

Zaianne cocked her an arch look. “He has to learn fast in order to head up this team, and he paid for it with not only the last year of his first life, but with that life itself. The second life that he has been given will be very busy, I fear, and he must be ready for it.”

Loliqua waggled a finger at her. “That doesn't mean that I can't envy him a bit. I truly do wish that I had such advantages when my own talents were just starting to bloom. I cannot count how many sleepless nights I spent, meditating for all that I was worth, going for weeks without so much as a hunch, and then getting so many of them all at once that I barely knew which universe I was in, much less the time of day! Ah—and speaking of such, there is one other person who might be of further help. A scientist of rare brilliance, specializing in dimensional probability, Slav is--”

“No,” Shiro said bluntly, “absolutely not.”

“We've met,” Lance said, frowning at his own bad assumptions during that little adventure. “He's smart, but he drives everyone around him nuts. Even the Olkari have to look after him in shifts.”

Loliqua giggled. “Yes, he is a bit erratic, especially when excited or stressed, and I have heard that the poor treatment he received while incarcerated has added a fine dose of paranoia to the mix. I have also heard that there is a way to defuse him when he becomes overexcited.”

“Really?” Allura asked, very interested for Shiro's sake.

“There is a shop called 'Terra' in one of the larger space malls, and they sell these little handheld battery-powered fans with colored lights set into the blades,” Loliqua informed them. “They apparently hypnotize him quite handily, although one is advised to turn down the offer of a free kaltenecker, or at least push for a real one. The animatronic ones are amusing, but they take up space and are a pain to dust.”

“Been there,” Pidge said, “done that, got the robot cow.”

There was a glint in Hunk's eye. “You can get a real one? A really real one?”

“Hunk...” Keith protested. “Where would we keep it, and who's going to clean up after it?”

Hunk shot out a hand and caught his teammate by the collar, lifting him off of the floor. _“Fresh cream,_ Keith. Real butter, real ice cream, real cheese. Custard _._ Steak, too, if Lizenne can clone bits of it. I will find a way. Lizenne, is there any room in your envirodeck where we can pasture a cow?”

Lizenne waved a negative hand. “In a Zampedran environment? Hunk, dear, the poor thing wouldn't last five minutes. Doesn't the Castle have a hydroponics section?”

“Three,” Coran said, “one for field crops and one for bushes, trees, and exotics, and there's a nice little meadow bed intended for gardening. The kitchen staff did insist upon having absolutely fresh produce for the grand feasts, and the fine Ladies of the Court would absolutely shrivel up and die if they didn't have fresh flowers about the place at all times, for all that the cleaning staff went on strike whenever the gardeners brought in a fresh load of fertilizer. Allura's mother was an excellent gardener herself and used to work out her frustrations by pruning the ghlarizee creepers. Lovely blooms those things had, and very pretty foliage, but the fruits would burst into flame if something tried to graze on them. Took real skill to cultivate those. The Queen had just about every cultivar there was and a few of her own breeding, but we lost those and most of the other garden plants during the time we spent in cryopods. The planting beds are not really meant for keeping livestock in, but we can make do, I suppose. Cows don't breathe fire or anything, do they?”

“They go 'moo' and eat grass,” Hunk said with unshakable determination and put Keith down. “And I will have one.”

Ranax squealed shrilly; he had managed to wiggle himself into an upside-down position, and was kicking his little legs in the air. Trenosh smiled. “And I will take this one home before he can bite it. Allow me to extend an invitation to all of you—my family wishes to speak with you, Grandfather especially. My uncles are willing to extend you a good discount if you wish to go shopping as well; it seems that they've overstocked a little on the Unilu delicacies and need the space in the storage rooms. They keep tripping over those cans of temmin okk.”

Nasty, who had been trading dirty looks with Ranax, perked up immediately. “That's important. Cans of temmin okk have to be ignored for months and tripped over regularly, or they just don't taste right. How long have they been there?”

“Best part of a year, and Uncle Kaerzan kicks them at least three times a week.” Trenosh told him. “Usually after wrangling with his Unilu customers over the coupons. He'll be happy to be rid of them.”

Nasty smiled, his expression beatific. “I like your folks already. They really _understand.”_

Trenosh chuckled and put Ranax down. “How can they not? We have a large Unilu community just a few blocks away from us. Just wait until you haggle over your purchases with Grandfather. He's an artist.”

“I'm looking forward to it,” Nasty said, and waved a finger at the Paladins. “And you lot had better pay attention and take notes. If a Galra shopkeeper can hold his own with a whole neighborhood of my kind, then you've got to be as good or better. Heroes, right? You've got to be the best at everything. Conventional wisdom says so.”

Keith smiled, well aware of his and his team's shortcomings where it came to that sort of thing. “Whatever you say, Teach.”

Loliqua smiled. “And I'll be sorry to miss it, but I really should—oh!”

“ _Kak!”_ something said from floor level. _“Yik! Pthhhbbbbtt! Bleah!”_

Everyone looked down to see Ranax roll away from Loliqua's ankles, his face contorted in an expression of pure disgust. In truth, nobody was terribly surprised about this; she'd spent all of her time aboard the Castle closeted with Shiro and the others, and despite his efforts to investigate their guest, the fearsome little cub hadn't been able to get a taste of her until now.

“Sorry,” Trenosh said, frowning at the ghastly faces his son was making. “Should I be worried about that?”

Loliqua giggled, then lifted the cub up into her arms and cuddled him a little. “Not in the least. This isn't the first time this has happened to me; the seventh Governor to hold his office during my reign was fortunate enough to engage the affections of a very fine Lady, and he liked nothing better than to show off his cubs whenever I put on a diplomatic function. Those were good years. He couldn't quite bring himself to be suspicious of anyone who was kind to his children, and I was able to give his brats a firm grounding in civilized behavior. Their mother was very grateful for the help, and they grew up to be very skilled indeed. They did learn very early on not to bite an Omora, mind you. While we are not exactly toxic, the oils in our skin do not taste good at all. Not at all tasty, now am I?”

She waved a finger under Ranax's nose as she said this, and the cub leaned well away from that finger, his little hands clamped firmly over his mouth. “Eeeph,” he said.

“Good boy,” she murmured, handing him back to his father. “As much as I would like to stay and observe everyone's progress, I really should be getting home.”

“Having premonitions?” Pidge asked.

Loliqua waggled a hand. “More of a subliminal urge, although those should never be ignored. While I do not doubt Fanlen's skills, it is better to be safe than sorry.”

Lance opened his mouth to comment, but a sudden _ping_ interrupted him, making the others look around sharply in surprise. Loliqua humphed and dug a small communicator out of her pocket, holding it up on the palm of her hand to allow a small screen to materialize. “Yes?”

“ _My apologies, Princess,”_ her pilot said tensely, _“but I've just received an urgent message from home. You're needed—the Keerampar Collective just had one of their little... ah..._ administrative reorganizations, _and the agreements that you'd made with their previous Thap Pevalva are now null and void. Fanlen doesn't have the training or the status to deal with that mob of scavengers. They're still fighting among themselves over who gets which seat at the table, but it won't be long before they contact your office. I'm sorry, your Highness, but Kings Elorpo, Quanstan, Lonnid, and Percowell just don't have your touch, and none of the Queens or other Princes or Princesses are willing or able to handle it.”_

“And none of the Chancellors are, either, I expect. Drat.” Loliqua muttered an exasperated oath under her breath. “I will just have to publish that manuscript after all, never mind that it might annoy them. Everything annoys them! Does the ship have sufficient range to take us home from here?”

Lathann frowned and looked away, and a few beeps suggested that he was looking at his starcharts. _“Not quite. If our gracious hosts can move us a little further in... say, the outer edge of the Byrn Binary System, we'll be able to take advantage of the Wholon Time-Space Anomaly and cut our travel time in half.”_

“We can do that,” Coran said, tapping at his controls briskly. “What manuscript was that, if I might ask?”

“A manual on how to handle some of the trickier peoples in the Bamnapos Sector,” she replied with an exasperated shake of her head. “Most of them are fairly straightforward and sensible types, but others are excitable, clannish, tribal, as touchy as a shaved furblit, or intent on causing as much chaos as they can get away with. The Keerampars are all of the above, and have driven legions of Governors into fits of frustrated rage.”

Keith cocked an interested look at her. “I'm surprised that nobody's made an example of them.”

Loliqua rolled her eyes heavenward. “They have been. Numerous times. It just makes them worse.”

“How do you handle them, then?” Allura asked.

“Being made to sit in a corner for about half an hour does the trick every time,” Loliqua said sourly, “usually while wearing an embarrassing hat. In extreme cases, I might swat them across the posterior segments with a measuring rod.”

Hunk stared. “You treat them like naughty schoolchildren?”

She scowled darkly. “They are children. Keerampars have several life-stages. They aren't even sentient during the first, being merely large grubs. The Second is spent bounding madly over the plains, continually reinventing simple tools and learning how to use them. After their Third Molt, they become able to understand the more complex scientific disciplines. After the Fourth, they are capable of learning quite complex ones, such as dimensional physics, power politics, and starflight. Unfortunately, they also achieve sexual maturity at that point, and become quite irrational at times because of it. Those that survive _that_ go on to the Fifth Molt, beyond which they are sessile—permanently attached to the trunks of enormous trees, where they spend their remaining days contemplating the Infinite and expounding upon it in philosophical terms that make no sense to anyone but each other. Personally, I would rather deal with a Fifth-Molt Keerampar than a Third or Fourth, but it cannot be avoided.”

“Hard to move the trees,” Coran agreed as Zaianne opened another wormhole. “Knew a few multistage peoples like that myself, back in the day, although Alfor and the rest of the team found them to be absolutely insufferable. While they might get all of their silliness over with in one go, so to speak, they tended to be maddeningly conservative, even hidebound, in the more sober phases. The Vloks weren't too bad in the juvenile stage, but it took them days of deep discussion to come up with an answer to a simple, 'how are you?' after they became Elders. Gyrgan used to lock himself in his room whenever we had to visit the Guinkos, and refused to come out until we'd proven that there weren't any on the ship. And if you even mentioned the Apuleon-Mektas where Blaytz could hear you, he'd be in his Lion and seven lightyears away before you'd finished the sentence. Zarkon didn't like 'em much, either--”

“Which is why none of those three races still exist,” Zaianne finished for him, bringing the ship out into an area of space where the view of the stars twisted strangely in the distance. “They pulled their usual nonsense with him shortly after he'd cemented his hold on the Throne, and he was no longer required to be diplomatic about anything. If nothing else, it taught their neighbors discretion. We're here.”

Lance gave her a narrow look. “Knew a few of those multistage guys too, huh?”

“Not personally, but I had to learn about those three races and what happened to them in school.” Zaianne grimaced in distaste. “The Headmistress and the Senior Faculty believed in education through object lessons, which was one of the reasons why I concentrated my studies on the martial arts. People soon learned not to try making an example of me.”

Loliqua humphed. “As well they should! But come now, my dears, give me one last hug. I must go, and I have no idea whether or not I will see you again anytime soon.”

The Castle and the Chimera entered the Arcobi System in a subdued mood, with Allura working some of it off by taking a turn at the helm. The Castle was starting to feel overlarge and overly empty again; it always did when guests went home. She missed Loliqua already, and was missing Vennex's shy but helpful presence, and would doubtless soon be missing Trenosh's calm respectfulness and even the prickle of Ranax's teeth in her shins. Perhaps she should ask Kolivan for a detachment of his people as a sort of household guard again. Pidge was right—there was something very comforting about having them around the place.

She laughed at herself then, remembering how deeply she had distrusted the whole race in the beginning, and how that prejudice had nearly crippled her friendship with Keith. She had learned better since then, which was hopeful. Perhaps she could teach that understanding to others, in time.

So thinking, she eased the castle into a stable orbit behind an unused dwarf planet, leaving plenty of room for the _Chimera_ to park itself nearby. Once again, they would be taking one of the _Chimera's_ landers down, since none of the Castle's pods were large enough, and anything of Altean make was sure to raise alarms even out here. Trenosh had helpfully alerted his family to their imminent arrival, and reported that they were clearing the loading dock behind their supermarket especially for this very special delivery. It would certainly be an interesting trip; she'd never visited a Galra-run grocery store before, and the tales that the others had told her of Hunk's previous shopping trips had been very entertaining. Allura was also very curious about Trenosh's grandfather. Was he really a retired Blade of Marmora, and how would he react to Zaianne, or to Keith for that matter?

There was a _squeep_ from ground level, a ferocious and high-pitched growl, and an _“ow!”_ from Hunk. She smiled. She would also get to see how little Galra girls disciplined a wayward brother.

“All right, we've arrived,” Coran informed them. “Does everybody have everything they need?”

Trenosh gave him a wry smile and pried his cub off of Hunk's leg. “I have my son and the clothes on my back, which is all that I truly need.”

“I pulled a bunch of cash from the Castle's fund, and I'll put back whatever I don't use,” Hunk said, rubbing his leg. “We're a little low on supplies in the kitchen, so I'm going to be making the best of this trip. You all warmed up, Nasty?”

The Unilu smiled in happy anticipation of a really good haggling match. “I spent most of the morning practicing in front of the mirror. I'm primed and ready to go.”

“I made up a whole crate of noisy toys for Ranax's sibs,” Lance said, and cast an apologetic glance at Trenosh. “I don't think that your folks are going to get much sleep for the next few days. Sorry.”

Trenosh merely chuckled. “Believe me, knowing precisely where those little monsters are will offset any amount of noise, and having one of her own will keep this one's sister from gnawing his ears off. Not that she won't try to notch them anyway! She is possessive of her brothers, and will not have taken our absence very well.”

Shiro puffed a laugh, and then turned a thoughtful gaze on his team. “Will we need to worry about being identified?”

Trenosh waved a negative gesture. “It isn't likely, especially if you go unarmored. The loading dock has a covered access port, since much of our stock might spoil if it gets rained on. No one outside will see you enter. As for inside the store... I very much doubt it. We get all sorts of people through, and plenty of them look more or less like you do. Furthemore, the Emperor is not as popular as he might like out here. The Garrison and the Governor are tolerated, but only so long as they concentrate on defending the planet from things like Gantarash and Ortakan slavers. Even if you are recognized, the locals aren't likely to report you.”

Lance gave him a sly smirk. “But they like you guys fine, right?”

“Of course,” Trenosh said loftily. “Without us, where would our customers get their temmin okk, candied flass, grethic cereals, tuallop sodas, and fresh fruits and vegetables from any of a dozen worlds? We don't overcharge like most of our competetors do, either, and we pay our employees well, regardless of race. Grandfather insisted on that, and it's won us the loyalty of the community. This also isn't the first time that we've had to provide cover for refugees, which has further cemented our place in society.”

Zaianne smiled. “Perhaps some of our friends might add a few layers of security to that, if only because they might have a need for that sort of help.”

Trenosh drew himself up proudly. “We are a full-service establishment, my Lady, and respected members of our community. We welcome the participation of our neighbors in our charitable programs, and are therefore not easily moved or shaken by the local movers and shakers.”

Nasty gave him a suspicious look. “You guys have been using your 'evil-overlord' privileges for the public good, haven't you?”

Trenosh smiled slyly. “When Grandfather speaks, he is heard, even by city officials, and he is much-concerned with the family's survival and comfort.”

Coran chuckled. “Sounds a bit like my Grandfather. Pop-Pop could always get everyone's attention, if only because he could swear in Zampedran. Yes, sir, listening to the old man gronk the air blue on a fine spring morning was not something to miss! People used to bring snacks and scorecards if they spotted him yelling at a sloppy manager. Let's just see if our ride is ready, shall we? Sister Dearest, is all in readiness?”

A screen popped up, showing Lizenne's face. _“It is. Modhri's just checked over our largest lander, and everything looks to be fine. Tilla and Soluk will be over shortly to mind the Castle's helm while we're out, so once they're on the bridge with the mice, you may board us at your discretion.”_

Keith rubbed at his face, still mildly offended that the resident rodents were just as good at piloting a starship as he was. “Will they come to the rescue, too, if we get into trouble down there?”

Lizenne laughed. _“Probably. I don't know, Trenosh, what would your much-vaunted community do if a pair of Zampedran Prairie Dragons were to come down and stage a jailbreak?”_

Trenosh considered that, then smiled wryly. “Half of the Unilu would sell tickets while the rest would pick the crowd's pockets. The native Arcobians would paint dramatic pictures of the battle and sell those to everybody else as souvenirs. The Galra citizens would feel only slightly guilty as they cheered the dragons on. Granny Glaspwort would rouse her family—they're Rejolians—and set up a booth to sell the bootleg booze that the old woman brews up in her basement. The town's Mercantile Association would immediately declare a sidewalk sale. The travel agency down the street would demand to know where those magnificent beasts came from so they could negotiate for an exclusive tourism line there. The Psiliwar Playwrights at the theater would be working out the choreography for at least three or four productions of the event. The Pushcart Peddler's Union would demand the concession rights. The Public Events Council would try to book both your group and the police force for another showing the following year. The crowd would be throwing things and yelling, and after it was all over, Grandfather would go down to the Mayor's office and give the poor man a scalding lecture about how the police should be treating his customers with respect. We have a very respectful police force, but there's always one overeager rookie, isn't there? Oh, don't make that face at me, Keith, we're a free-market economy. Imperial Law is nice, but it should stay on its own side of the fence.”

“Makes sense to me,” Shiro said and waved a hand at the door. “Shall we?”


	8. A Little Work, A Little Play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week has been stressful and borderline depressing for both Spanch and I, which has left us in a rather odd humor. So for this chapter we invoke SILLY!

Chapter 8: A Little Work, A Little Play

The trip down to the planet was a little bit of a challenge for Modhri, who wasn't used to that level of traffic; Arcobi couldn't compare to the two great trade centers that lay on either side of it in the two nearest solar systems, but its orbits were bustling nonetheless. Still, he managed to work his way down through the shipping lanes, informing the control towers that he was delivering a special order to a respected local merchant; from the way that those busy officials waved him onward, this was too common an event for them to get curious about. The Paladins could easily believe that—there was an astounding variety of ships descending and lifting from the starports and docked at the various moons and space stations, and Coran, Pidge, Hunk, and Nasty amused themselves by playing a game of name-that-starcraft. Quite aside from the small, sleek Unilu ships and the blockier purple shapes of civilian Galra craft, there were rarer finds: a long, slender Palisoor ore scow with its distinctive pattern of pink lights; the bright red sphere of a Guanhop freighter; a Lipplipor merchanter that looked like a jumble of jeweled hoops; an angular, businesslike ship that Hunk said was a Throthinti heavy scout, and even a rather abstract-looking contrivance that, after some thought, Pidge was able to identify as a reconditioned Menoku exploratory ship. There was one smallish craft that made Nasty hiss through his teeth, though. It wasn't much to look at, being a sort of silvery-green, elongated-star shape, but the Unilu was looking at it as though he expected it to bite.

“Something wrong?” Coran asked.

“Ortakan ship,” Nasty said, pointing at the offending craft. “Just a scout, but Ortakan. I've never heard of them coming this far into Empire space. Arcobi doesn't have a slave market, does it?”

“No,” said Trenosh, “and we're rather proud of the fact. Our kind and the local peoples get along well enough without anyone being forced into submission.”

Zaianne humphed. “I'll warn Kolivan and the others to keep an eye on them.”

“Thank you,” Trenosh murmured, holding his son close.

They hit atmosphere soon after that, and conversation ceased as Modhri eased them down through a thunderstorm. Once through the cloud layer, he headed southeast, cities and open land rolling away beneath them in patches of mottled dimness and galaxy-like sprawls of light. Eventually, he zeroed in on a particular city, and then a particular suburb, merging expertly into the local air-traffic lanes for a little time before bringing the ship down as lightly as a feather in a large lot behind a broad, low building. Trenosh fidgeted impatiently while the jets cooled, and watched avidly as the covered loading dock extended to fasten itself to the lander's hatch. Modhri murmured something reassuring into his comm, and then opened the doors.

From the dimness of the loading dock, a woman's voice asked, “Trenosh?”

“Helitha!” Trenosh called back, and was out of his seat in a flash, Ranax squeaking in protest at the sudden jostling. Modhri watched him rush out of the lander with a smile, and then raised a hand when the others started to get up. “Give them a moment,” he said quietly. “It's very hard for a man to be separated from his mate for any time at all, and he's been away for weeks.”

Cubs didn't like being parted from their mothers either, and they could hear Ranax making shrill but muffled _squee-yeep_ sounds that they'd heard before from Sarell's cubs, when they had wanted her but couldn't find her. Hunk sniffled emotionally at the tearful reunion that they could hear a little distance away, but they stayed put until Trenosh called to them in a voice that only shook a little.

“It's... it's all right, thank you. Come and meet the family.”

The loading dock led out into a large distributing area, but there was still barely room enough for everybody. There had to be at least four generations of them, most of them bearing a strong family resemblance to Trenosh, and at least two dozen cubs in various stages of development were peering curiously at the visitors from behind a forest of long legs. Trenosh was standing with his arm around a slender, very relieved-looking woman who was holding Ranax tightly, the cub clinging to her shirt with all four sets of claws.

“Helitha, everybody, these are our rescuers,” Trenosh said with a brilliant smile, waving his free hand at the team. “The Paladins of Voltron, who destroyed an entire Ship-Clan of Gantarash to save us and many others. Allura, Shiro, Keith, Hunk, Pidge, and Lance. The Rogue Witch and her man, Lizenne and Modhri. Zaianne of the Blade of Marmora, Coran, and Nasty, who has been teaching them all some very useful tricks.”

There was a polite rumble of greeting from the crowd, and a great deal of fascinated staring. Allura put on her most winsome smile and stepped forward to speak for her team. “I am very pleased to meet all of you,” she said sweetly, “Trenosh and Ranax have been excellent guests, and have done us and our allies a very great deal of good. I'm sorry that we could not bring him back to you sooner, but there were pressing matters that had to be addressed.”

Helitha nodded, shifting her son to a more comfortable position. “You've brought them back safe and unhurt, and that is enough. That we will profit from his work as well is secondary, although you should have heard Grandfather howling with laughter at the news of Jeproba's liberation. He'd met their Governor once, you see, and did not like him at all.”

Lance made a face. “Neither did the Jeprobans. Yantilee wanted to take the guy alive, but the Jeprobans had other ideas, and there wasn't much left of him by the time we got there.”

“There, now!” a gruff voice said suddenly, startling everyone, and the crowd parted to reveal a person who was obviously the family patriarch. He had been an imposing figure in his youth, very broad across the shoulders with long, powerful limbs; even in advanced old age, he was still impressive despite the fact that one arm was obviously mechanical, and the opposite leg creaked and whirred as he approached. Scars drew pale lines across his face from crown to jaw, narrowly missing the left eye, and the left ear had been notched during that same incident. The purple of his fur had faded to gray, with broad white streaks above the ears and over the back of his remaining arm. He might move slowly and leaned upon a cane as he did so, but there was an unmistakable grace to his carriage that told them louder than words that he had been trained in a very exclusive style of martial arts.

“Didn't I tell him that he would meet his end that way?” the old man continued, striding forward, his cane clacking sharply on the flooring with each stride. “Only a complete idiot mistreats his charges, I said, so I did, and only an idiot thinks that any people will submit meekly to such abuse forever. Did he never think that the bill might come due? He did not, and it has, and it has cost him his life, the lives of his cronies, and the Empire a goodly amount of valuable territory. Zaianne, girl, I see you've survived. Who's running the Order now?”

Zaianne had started in astonishment at the old man's appearance, and was now staring at him in disbelief. She wasn't the only one; many of Trenosh's kin were staring at the old man in shock as well. “Kolivan,” she whispered. “Kolivan leads us now. Drathann, we thought you were dead, killed in the attack on Tekura!”

“I almost was.” The old man came to a halt, gazing around at his surprised descendants with a wistful look in his eyes. “Fortunately for me, a very determined young woman had decided that I would not die that day, and she kept me alive in the following years despite my attempts to further the purpose of the Order. My daughters took up that duty after she died, with some success.” He rattled his claws on the handle of his cane, yellow eyes sizing up the Paladins. “Kolivan, eh? Always thought that the boy had potential. What of you, girl, and this peculiar group of yours, and what odd beast did you find to cross your good blood with to produce that cub, there? He's all pink and hasn't enough fur.”

Keith hissed in outrage, but any outburst he might have made was defused by Lance elbowing him in the ribs. “Told you so,” Lance whispered. “Grow some fuzz, man.”

Zaianne sneered at Drathann. “The man was Human, and among the best of them. My son Khaeth pilots the red Lion—the sword-arm of Voltron—and is accepted by the Order as well.”

Lizenne smirked. “Humans are genetically related to our kind, sir Blade, by a bit of ancient meddling, courtesy of some Elder Race or other. Very smooth work, too; I can't make out who did it, or which race was the original. They are all quite worthy of their status, regardless of origin.”

“Hah!” the old man barked a laugh, rapping his cane loudly on the floor and grinning fiercely at them, slightly gap-toothed where he'd lost a few fangs to his profession. “If you're going to custom-build a mutant, you might as well do a good job of it, eh? Purple or pink, it doesn't matter so long as the sword strikes truly, right? Right. Come and be welcome in our House, then, and we shall sit comfortably and have refreshments while you tell us all of how my grandson and great-grandson happened to fall into your hands. After that, Zaianne, you and I must talk, and I would be grateful for a chat with the Witch and her man as well. The rest of you will go shopping, and you will summon me when you are finished, for I have not had a good wrangle with a genuine Unilu pirate in years. Ah! Today, it is a good day, and I feel that it will soon be a better one.”

Drathann turned on his heel and led them toward a side door, chuckling richly. Hunk smiled as they turned to follow along. “What a cool old guy.”

“We certainly think so,” Trenosh murmured back, and then cocked an eyebrow at Zaianne. “You knew him, my Lady?”

She nodded. “He was one of my instructors during my first few years of training, and a warrior in very good standing with the Order. Losing him was a terrible blow to the rest of us. Kolivan... will be very pleased to hear that we did not lose him entirely. I wonder, Trenosh, if any of your kin might be interested in following in their grandfather's footsteps?”

Helitha gave her man an arch look. “Several of them have bred true, I'm afraid, and cause trouble if they aren't watched. If the Order is recruiting, Zaianne, I would be happy to recommend some of them!”

They were soon settled in a comfortable family room, although the storytelling was delayed a bit. A small furry purple blur shot into the room right under the feet of one of Trenosh's brothers, nearly sending the tray of snacks he was carrying flying across the room, and screaming a high-pitched paean of rage. Ranax gave a squeak of dismay and leaped out of his mother's arms in an attempt to run for the hills. The moment he touched the floor, however, the newcomer attacked, latching onto his shoulder with sharp little teeth and growling ferociously while he squealed in protest.

“His sister?” Keith asked.

Helitha nodded. “Askuri. We have great hopes for her. Morex, I did ask you to latch the door of the nursery, didn't I?”

One of the younger men, probably Trenosh's nephew, shrugged helplessly as tufts of baby fur flew. “I did, and I checked it three times, and even stuck the toothpick into the loop so that the latch couldn't pop open. She opened it anyway. That little girl of yours is going to be a terror in a few years, you know that? You've gone and spawned a safe-cracker.”

Ranax was fighting back now, and not all of the loose fur on the carpet was his. The family observed the whirling ball of angry fur with critical eyes. “Whatever he's been up to, it's given him courage,” one of the girls commented.

Allura giggled. “He spent most of his stay with us gnawing on pirates, heroes, and dragons. Perhaps a little of their boldness rubbed off on him?”

Pidge waved a hand. “If that didn't do it, nearly getting eaten by a Gantar brood-queen did. That little girl's mean, but nothing like as ugly as that death spider was.”

Drathann shot her a narrow look. “I will want to hear about that. Helitha, would you separate them, please?”

“Don't worry, sir, I've got it,” Lance said, opening up the small hovercrate he'd brought along and pulling out a strange object. “I made enough for everybody.”

The object hit the floor next to the brawling cubs with a loud _“gloop!”_ that made Askuri halt mid-savage. Much as Ranax had before her, she approached the thing with care, swatted it experimentally, and then seized upon it when it made gross noises at her. Unlike her brother, she then picked it up and smacked Ranax with it hard enough to knock him over. Daunted by the fearsome _ONK_ the toy made and defeated by his sister's ferocity, the boy-cub ran squealing for the safety of his mother's arms.

Drathann nodded in satisfaction and fixed Allura with a penetrating look. “Very good. Begin, if you would, young lady. How did you come to rescue my kin?”

Allura sat back in her seat, trying to remember exactly where that adventure had started and the previous one had left off. “One of our allies had managed to get us lost, and so we were forced to navigate back to familiar space through a very large region of anomalous space...”

“Wow,” Hunk said, looking with greedy eyes at the long aisles of culinary treasure.

It was just as well that they'd arrived early in the day, for Trenosh's family had not been satisfied with just one adventure tale. No, Grandfather Drathann had demanded the whole epic, and everyone in the crowd of fascinated Galra had had questions. Zaianne was now closeted with the heads of the family, along with Lizenne and Modhri for more in-depth discussions. Now, it was Hunk's turn to play. He intended to make the best of it, too; Trenosh hadn't been exaggerating when he'd described the family business. If anything, he'd understated it. The grocery was easily the size of the biggest Earthly supermarkets, but still retained that unique Mom-and-Pop atmosphere that was so rarely found there now.

“All right, guys,” Hunk said, suddenly all business. “Got the shopping list?”

Pidge held up her handcomp. “Yup!”

“Got the translator?”

Keith held up a small device specifically designed for reading alien labels and ingredient lists. “Right here, Hunk.”

“Got Ronok's do-not-eat list?”

Ronok's cookbooks had helpfully included a list of things that were toxic to Humans and Unilu, and Coran had added a long list of things that had evil effects upon Altean digestion. Lance waved it cheerfully. “On the job and ready to do it.”

“Tall consults and lift-and carry specialists?”

Shiro, Coran, and Allura raised their hands with simultaneous smiles, anticipating some very good meals in the future.

“Official spotter of hidden treasures on lower shelves?”

“I was born for this work,” Nasty said, cracking both sets of knuckles.

“Faithful native guides?”

A couple of Trenosh's nephews grinned and raised their hands.

Hunk's strong hands gripped the handle of a shopping cart, his aspect that of a roller-coaster afficionado at a new theme park. “Let's rock this place.”

Meanwhile, outside on the street, Officer Barzet, a veteran beat cop and expert trainer, was leading a rookie around in the finest tradition of suburban police forces everywhere. The boy was new, having transferred in from clear across the city; Barzet felt that the Koraston District Police Commissioner had reassigned the overeager young fool here in an attempt to get rid of him. It happened occasionally; they were only eleven miles from the busiest starport on the continent, and the residents were very diverse. As a result of that, the local cops had to be a little... flexible... and had to learn when to enforce the law and when to exercise a certain amount of discretionary blindness. The ones who didn't learn, well, they generally found work elsewhere, assuming that they survived the learning experience. Unilu only looked fragile, after all, and Arcobians were only placid up until they weren't.

They were passing a major hotspot for learning experiences at the moment, Old Man Pranvax'Lor's neighborhood market. Officer Barzet had been only a youngster himself when the broken warrior and his wife had opened the place, and had watched (and bought snacks there every day) as both the family and the business had grown and evolved into a major mainstay of the neighborhood, and then into an important member of the Mercantile Association. Their selection was reputed to be equal to or better than any other such establishment on the planet, and that drew in all sorts of odd characters. Old Man Pranvax'Lor was okay with Barzet and his colleagues giving the customers hard looks through the windows, but unless someone in there was either eating a cashier or setting the place on fire, the rule was “look, but don't touch”. The fierce old gentleman had had a word with the Mayor, the Mayor had had a word with the Chief of Police, the Chief had told the District Commissioner, and the District Commissioner had told all of the District's cops—leave the customers alone. Didn't matter who or what they were, it was hands off unless they started doing real damage. It was, in fact, unofficial Department policy to run all of this District's rookies past the store as a sort of intelligence test.

This rookie, the older cop thought, might or might not pass. He was Kedrekan with a fair amount of Golrazi blood in him to judge by the stiff, leathery hide, the fanglike extensions on the upper lip, and the hot, hasty temperament that such crossbreeding often produced. There was a fair amount of smarts in the lad, but it was buried under an awful lot of twerp. Barzet was contemplating just how many hard knocks it would take to remove some of it when the rookie stopped suddenly, turning to peer through the market's big armorglass windows. A bit excessive, Barzet had thought once, considering that common plate-glass was good enough for most shops, but past experiences had taught him that the extra expenditure had been worth it. A lot of the bolder thieves liked to make dramatic entrances and exits through such big, tempting windows. They never got anywhere with Old Man Pranvax'Lor's establishment, although the people here always thought it was really funny when they tried. The latest attempt, for example, had been a gang of Muellock desperadoes, a mucusoid, gastropod-like people that often got up to no good during the adolescent phase of their development. That had been an easy pickup, if mildly disgusting—the arresting officers had had to remove the would-be burglars from the armorglass panes with squeegees. Despite the stubborn sticky spots still adhering to the window, his trainee was pressing himself up hard against the surface.

“Leave be, boy,” he grunted to his young partner. “If no one's shooting the place up, it's not our problem.”

“Yes it is, sir!” the younger man said eagerly. “Look at those people, there!”

The lad was pointing at what looked to be a speed-shopping team darting up and down the aisles, dodging around the other customers like stunt pilots and stuffing items into one of the big shopping carts as if the world would end tomorrow. Or if it was the day before a major feast holiday. Same thing, really, with some of those holidays. The older man humphed. “Still not our problem, Kivrash. Those two kids there are members of the proprietor's family, and they're egging that group on, not trying to stop them. Look, even the other shoppers are cheering them on.”

The rookie groaned in frustration; he didn't much approve of his Department's selectively laid-back attitude toward law enforcement. _“Sir,_ look at them! I've got a cousin who works in a space mall, and he sends me security footage of the troublemakers he has to deal with. Those four there—the little one with the eye jewelry, the big round one, the skinny tan one, and the dark-haired one with the weird jacket—those were pirates, he said, and they caused a ruckus and then escaped on a flying kaltenecker!”

Barzet refrained from rolling his eyes with an effort. He'd met Varkon once, and hadn't thought much of the man's ability to judge character. “Kivrash, if that lot causes a ruckus, the Pranvax'Lor kids will deal with it and hand off the leftovers to us. Just like last time, when that team of Gropindi burglars tried to stick the place up and got their asses handed to them. The Old Man was some sort of Special Forces agent, and he's taught his lot all the best tricks. Even Unilu won't try shoplifting here. Not more than once, anyway.”

“But sir, they might belong to the Ghost Fleet!” the rookie pleaded. “You know we've got a Be-On-The-Lookout order for Ghost Fleet pirates, they're a real hazard.”

Barzet shot him an exasperated look. “They're also not our jurisdiction. The Military's responsible for dealing with that lot, and they get nasty when civilian officers show them up for the slop-artists that they are. Yantilee himself could be in there buying pantyhose, and it still wouldn't be our problem.”

“But--” the younger man whined.

His senior wasn't impressed. “Oh no! Chain of command, see? We'd have to call the Commissioner, he'd have to call the Chief, and then _he'd_ have to call the Mayor. The Mayor would then have to sit on hold for two hours until the Governor's Secretary would deign to answer the comm, and then the Secretary would have to sober up the Governor, who'd then have to sober up the patrol fleet Commander, who would then have to sober up his captains. Then they'd spend the rest of the day griping about having to come down into a gravity well, and by the time they came clomping around down here, the pirates—if that's what they really are—would be long gone. Then Old Man Pranvax'Lor would read the Mayor the riot act again for letting those soldier boys disturb his customers, and then the Mayor'd yell at the Chief, who'd yell at the Commissioner, who'd yell at you. That's assuming that the Pranvax'Lor kids don't head all of that off by hustling you right back out here for being a nuisance. Not worth it, boy.”

“ _Sir!”_ the rookie protested, looking so crestfallen that the older man sighed.

“All right, fine,” Barzet said and waved him onward. “Try for an arrest if you like, but don't say that I didn't warn you.”

Kivrash wasn't listening. Full of righteous determination, he strode through the doors and toward the aisles, ignoring the dubious glances and anticipatory grins of the checkout crew, who had seen the officious young man stalking around the neighborhood before and knew that it was only a matter of time before he'd come here. Unaware of the wagers being made and settled around the registers, he headed off down the aisles, shouldering bystanders aside as he sought his natural prey. He found the group of alleged pirates clustered around an overloaded cart in Aisle Twenty, all but two of them holding armloads of goods while the big round one and the Unilu struggled with a particular box of imported items.

“It's not going to fit, guys,” the skinny tan one said as the big round one struggled to find a place to put that one last item. “We'll have to get another cart.”

“Nothing doing!” the villainous-looking Unilu shot back, frantically trying to reorganize their load, which had already been packed with the frightening precision of a true block-puzzle master. “They said that the first cart and anything we could carry was fifty percent off, and I am culturally forbidden to pay full price for anything!”

“We could just leave it,” the one with the weird jacket grunted under his own load of goods. “You've got three crates already.”

“I did not hear you say that just now,” the Unilu said dangerously. “Have you any idea of how hard it is to get pickled gropp outside of Unilu space? This is the first time since before I met Varda there that I've seen better than base-grade, which is only just barely better than pavement sealer. This is festival-grade, and if you put that crate back on the shelf, Hunk, so help me, I will--”

“Halt!” Kivrash barked, and they turned to look at him without any fear in their eyes at all. Curiosity, maybe, and annoyance, but no fear, which was not a good sign. “Stop right there, you--”

“Who's this guy?” Weird Jacket asked one of the two young Galra helpers.

The young man humphed disapprovingly and shifted his grip on his own armload of groceries. “That's Officer Kivrash. He's new, and a little dumb. Grandfather hasn't had a chance to yell at him yet.”

Angered by this insult, Kivrash drew in breath to lecture the boy, only to have it knocked back out when a heavy crate of large bottles was thumped down into his arms.

“Hold that, will you?” the big round one said. “We're almost done here, so this won't take long.”

“How dare you?” Kivrash blustered, “I order you to cease and desist, and to identify yourselves immediately! I have reason to believe that you are criminals, and--”

He stopped short. There was a dangerous look on the big one's face now that his group seemed to recognize and knew to avoid; all of them took a few steps backward, leaving them in a widening circle of empty space. That square jaw had come forward, the eyebrows cocked at spine-wilting angles of disapproval, and the dark, direct stare seemed to bore into Kivrash's eyes and right out through the back of his head. The alien straightened up and squared his shoulders in much the same way that mountains rose up over the landscape. He was _big,_ Kivrash realized, not as tall as he was, maybe, but massively built, and he exuded an air of awesome authority; the young officer suddenly felt very small and alone.

“No,” the alien said in a voice that brooked no argument. “You're going to help us out here, 'cause that's what public defenders do. Just think of it as community service.”

There was something about the big one's tone that reached down into Kivrash's instincts and flipped a number of very specific switches, and he suddenly had to fight a terrible urge to obey. He hissed angrily and tried to toss the crate aside, but a broad, powerful hand had closed over his wrist in a grip that was immovable.

“Just do it, man,” the big one said firmly, every word a blow to Kivrash's resolve. “It's not hurting you, and you really don't want to drop those jars.”

“And why not?” Kivrash asked in one last show of defiance.

The big one let go of him and began ticking points off on his fingers. “Number one: those jars are full of pickled gropp. If you drop them, this Unilu will kill you. Number two: if you break the seals on those jars, the smell will kill you. Sorry, Nasty, but that stuff is rank. Number three: if you make a scene in here, we've been told that your boss will kill you. I get it, you're probably new at this, so let's make sure you live long enough to get good at it, okay? Now hold onto that and help us finish. What's left on the list, Pidge?”

The littlest one juggled an armload of sacks of dried mushrooms and peered at her handcomp. “Just the sylth grain, some mettic paste, and the cream of imsop. Hey, do you guys carry thelwisk seeds?”

“Yeah,” the second young Galra grunted from behind a stack of wangnarap pasta. “We may even still have some. Aisle Five, right next to the dakka nuts on the special-imports display.”

“Mine,” she declared, and trotted away, mushroom bags rustling furiously. The others turned to follow her, and Kivrash, defeated, trailed after them.

Kivrash soon found himself too heavily-laden to manage more than a knee-wobbling shuffle, and could barely see over the mountain of objects they'd piled into his arms. Great sacks of sylth kernels and flour had been piled atop the pickled gropp, along with big tubs of mettic paste, a large variety pack of pungent spices that had him fighting an urge to sneeze, and every last sack of thelwisk seeds that the littlest one could find. He was sweating profusely by the time that they headed for the registers, and was seriously considering some weight training. Even the slender, white-haired female was carrying a stack of stuff larger than his, and seemingly without effort. It was with great relief that Kivrash laid down his burden on the large-order register's conveyor belt, and leaned heavily on it, gasping for breath while the others laid down their own loads next to his.

“All right then,” the tall, orange-haired man said, twirling a truly fearsome mustache, “that was as fine a shopping trip as any I've been on, and I've been on some pretty good ones. Why, I was a member of the Commissary Corps during my first years at the Academy, and you would not believe how quickly a mob of cadets could go through even the biggest boil-ups of eploplia quorp, and we had to restock every five quintents. Even so, it took a good deal of creativity to make those supplies stretch that far, and they were glad to have me on the team for that alone. I was justly famed for my skill with the big condenser, too.”

The skinny tan one gave him a sly smile. “Oh, is that why your native cuisine smells like cafeteria food?”

The mustachioed man sniffed primly. “Well, it _was_ a cafeteria. Quite a high-quality one at that.”

“Oh, yeah,” the skinny one said with a malicious grin. “They only dropped the most expensive sneakers into the gravy, right? To give it some kick.”

Orange Mustache took that poorly. “Are you suggesting that the Academy's Culinary Elite fed their fellows _footwear?”_

“That's what your cooking tastes like, man,” Skinny Tan replied.

“That's enough, you two,” sighed a tall, pale man with a white forelock, forestalling what looked to escalate into a noisy argument. “Pidge, Hunk, are you sure that you've got everything?”

“And then some,” the big one said, beaming over his mountain of food. “Ready, Nasty?”

The Unilu rubbed his hands together eagerly. “Bring it.”

The big one nodded to one of the young Galra, who tapped a pager and said, “Grandpa? They're ready for you.”

Kivrash frowned in confusion. What was going on here? In what kind of grocery store did the owner of the establishment make appointments with suspected pirates? Well, he had heard stories about the Old Man, but he'd thought they were just rumors...

There was a sudden _clack_ that echoed around the store like a steel-shod thunderbolt, and then another, and another; he turned along with everyone else and felt the terrible, instinctive, and atavistic fear of... _The Patriarch._ Kivrash had never actually met Old Man Pranvax'Lor. His fellow officers had described the man as a juggernaut, a force of nature, and a dread figure right out of some of the more baroque old legends, and he'd laughed off their superstitious dread as an attempt to frighten him. Now, with each stunning impact of the cane against the flooring, it became more and more clear that his colleagues had not been exaggerating at all. As much as the big alien had loomed at him, the Old Man was ten times worse without even trying. Age and injury had not diminished his power, but had somehow enhanced it. Every movement he made was executed with perfect control and coordination, and he walked with an air of supreme confidence here on his own ground. Everything about him had an air of expertly-contained hazard; indeed, his expression was mild, a small smile playing about his lips, but the pale eyes gleamed with predatory anticipation. Following in his wake was a crowd of customers, all of them residents of the neighborhood and well aware that something interesting was going to happen any minute. Kivrash might have shouted at them to disperse out of sheer nerves, but the Old Man was taking up all of his attention.

He came to a halt at the register and propped both hands on his cane, looking at each face in turn with avuncular approval, and then rested his gaze upon the vast pile of goods at the checkout counter. “My word, what a heap,” he said gently. “Who shall run that order?”

One of the checkout crew and three baggers saluted, volunteering bravely for the duty. The Old Man nodded. “Proceed.”

Never before had Kivrash seen so monstrously large an order being run so quickly or professionally, nor had he personally seen a total quite so large. The person at the register took a deep and calming breath, and spake thusly: “Do you have any discount coupons?”

The Unilu struck a heroic pose and leveled a pair of index fingers at the Old Man. “Your boss said that we could have everything we could stuff into one cart or carry ourselves half off. That's everything here.”

He might as well have made a formal declaration of war. Old Man Pranvax'Lor's eyes flashed dangerously. “I dispute that,” he snapped in a tone that had reduced strong men to tears before this. “My grandsons and a passing policeman do not count as part of your group. You will pay full price for the items they carried.”

Kivrash noticed that the littlest pirate had pulled out a handcomp and was recording the budding argument, and he realized that one of the famous Unilu haggling sessions was about to take place right in front of him.

Right on cue, the Unilu slashed a pair of hands through the air in the classic Gesture of Absolute Negation. “We deputized the kids and the cop volunteered. Still within the rules, old man.”

Old Man Pranvax'Lor flicked Kivrash a glance like the lick of a flame. “Nothing of the sort. He did not volunteer. He _was_ volunteered; this is no different from conscription, which is not legal upon this planet except when under orders from the Governor himself. He does not count. You also did not get written agreements from my grandsons, and by law, no contract is binding without such documentation.”

_They're just warming up,_ Kivrash thought numbly. _They're just warming up! I wonder if I can just sort of sneak away..._

The white-haired woman laid a hand on his arm, gripping it gently... for the moment. He could feel astonishing strength in that slender hand, and knew that it was already too late for any chance of escape.

Outside, Kivrash's senior officer leaned comfortably against the wall, basking in the late-afternoon sunshine and picking meditatively at his teeth. A glance over his shoulder at the registers revealed a massive pile of bagged goods, a large and respectful audience, and the Old Man and an Unilu in a ferocious argument. He could hear them even through the armorglass, from the Unilu's vicious threats and sly insinuations to the Old Man's booming denounciations and statements of bald fact. That was a large part of what made him so frightening to the Mayor, Barzet mused. There was nothing that politicians feared more than smart, sober, forceful, honest, and incorruptible people who were in full possession of _all_ of the facts.

The veteran cop sniffed reflectively. Maybe he could get one of the family to lend him the security recordings as a training vid for new recruits. This one sounded almost as intense as the haggling match that had erupted last year during the Unilu community's annual Festival of the Swindlers, when one of their best had faced down the Pranvax'Lor over possession of a whole frozen wuskor. Even he knew that wuskor was very difficult to find on any world other than the Unilu's own home planet, even as simple preserved cuts of meat. To find a whole, uncooked one, cryogenically frozen... yeah. That had been a real fight. This one was pretty good, though, especially once the other members of the Unilu's group had joined in, and the sun was sinking toward the horizon in a blaze of fiery color before the wrangle came to its natural conclusion. He glanced through the window again at the faint sound of cheers and applause, saw the crowd helping the Unilu's party to ferry the piles of groceries toward the rear exit, and viewed the Old Man shaking hands amicably with the rather worn-out Unilu. Once again, the Pranvax'Lor had given as good as he'd got. Seeing as the excitement was over, Barzet ambled inside to find out if they'd left his rookie intact.

He needn't have worried. Kivrash was sitting on one of the off-duty registers, looking vaguely poleaxed and sucking on a stick of hard candy. He nodded politely at the proud Patriarch. “Drathann. Had a good match?”

The Old Man's scarred face lit up with a satisfied smile. “Oh, yes,” he chuckled, “it has been a good day. Your new lad there came in handy, and one of them even bought him a treat. I have made it known to them that they are welcome here, Barzet, and that I would relish another wrangle with them.”

Kivrash broke down in tears.

Barzet nodded calmly. “I'll keep that in mind. By the way, were those people really pirates? Kivrash here was pretty sure of it.”

Drathann shook his head. “No. Aside from the Unilu—all Unilu being pirates of one sort or another—they are by no means nefarious. Quite the reverse. I might say that the Emperor would not approve of them, but he approves of very little.”

Barzet patted Kivrash on one shaking shoulder and cocked a suspicious look at the Old Man, whom he knew to have certain dangerous opinions. “They've done _something,_ right? Something that'd get us in trouble?”

“Nothing of the sort,” Drathann replied, using that special tone that said that the subject was closed and would not be discussed again. “They have committed no crimes on this world, nor will they.”

Barzet nodded again and eased his junior to his feet. “Good enough, sir. Come on, Kivrash, walk it off. See what happens when you blunder into something cultural? Good evening, Drathann.”

“Yes,” Drathann murmured, looking up at the ceiling at the faint sound of a shuttle craft lifting off. “A very good evening, indeed.”

“So, what were you guys talking about?” Keith asked as he maneuvered the last sack of sylth flour onto a shelf in the kitchen's makeshift pantry, which had once been storage space for cleaning equipment and supplies.

The Castle had once been home to hundreds of people and thousands of mice, and actually had two kitchens. The one they were using now had been the domain of the chefs privileged to cook for the Royal Family alone, while the much larger one several levels below had furnished meals for the household staff, the palace guard, and the innumerable guests and diplomatic visitors that had inhabited the ship in its heyday. As a result, the smaller kitchen had been designed to be the very pinnacle of culinary science, with automatic systems that could produce most of the simpler dishes and items all by themselves. Dishes, alas, that were purely Altean. Hunk had had to make certain adjustments and reorganizations here and there, and refused to plod up and down miles of corridor whenever he needed a cup of sugar from the original main pantry. Coran had protested a bit the first time he'd seen Hunk's modified nutrifabber lurking next to the gel dispensers, but Hunk had plopped a bowl of freshly-made gnaleran with crumbled spikka in his hands, and that was that.

Modhri smiled as he placed the fragrant sacks of thelwisk seeds into the specially-built, mouseproof safe that Pidge had bolted into one corner; the mice had been very eager to see what they'd brought back from Arcobi, and Pidge had wound up chasing them all over the pod deck when they had stolen a sack of those rare and precious seeds. The safe probably wouldn't hold the little rodents off for long, given their level of technical skill, but Pidge was working on the problem.

“Drathann's been out of the loop for a very long time, and wanted to know what had been going on,” Modhri told his adoptive nephew. “His wife was dead set against him running off and losing any more body parts, and kept him very thoroughly grounded in his business and in building his status in his neighborhood. This has turned out to be a very good thing; Zaianne was able to contact Kolivan and bring him into the discussion, you see. Arcobi is not a terribly wealthy colony, but it is very strategically placed. That grand old man may well have given the Coalition the keys to taking those two big trade hubs in the neighboring systems without damaging either of them.”

Keith stared at him. “How are they going to do that?”

Modhri smirked. “Economic ties. What Trenosh did not tell us was that Drathann and his wife had been making very carefully-placed investments in the markets for well over thirty standard years. All he has to do is make a few calls, and the Rakshane and Poberantha Garrisons will find themselves abruptly without services, support, or supplies. Those warships are very expensive to maintain and operate, Keith, and it's not the Empire who pays the bills. The Market Hubs will be glad to see the back of them.”

Keith grinned and started stacking spice packs on their own designated shelves. “Cool. That's one less space battle for us to fight. How did Kolivan take the news?”

“He was delighted, of course. Drathann had been one of his instructors as well, and the Order has always valued its training staff highly.” Modhri handed him a packet of dried swiggot berries and started stacking the Unilu delicacies on the other side of the pantry. “He was even happier to hear that certain of Drathann's descendants would do well as recruits. He was one of their best.”

“Like Zandrus,” Keith said.

“Yes,” Modhri murmured, sobering somewhat. “Very much like my great-uncle.”

Keith cast him a sympathetic glance for his loss, and then stretched out his shoulders with a grunt; his arms were a little sore from carrying groceries. “So, what's next on the agenda?”

“We have a little breathing space, or so Kolivan told us,” Modhri replied, examining a jar of marlep preserves with interest. “The Beronites are having some success with their end of the resistance effort, and the Military is focused on them right now. We may have to go and lend a hand, but for the time being, they're doing well enough on their own.”

Keith smiled. “Enough time to see if Black will let Shiro get a little flight time in?”

Modhri chuckled. “Yes, actually. Let's just finish up with this, and we'll see if Allura's found us a safe spot to let him play in.”

And so it was that, armored and full of hope, Shiro settled himself down into the pilot's seat in the black Lion a short time later. He leaned his head back against the padding, eyes closed, his hands seeking the control beams. It was different from the last time he'd done this; Black had subtly reshaped his cockpit around Allura's height and reach, and he'd had to stretch to reach the controls. Not this time. This time, the seat fit him precisely, and the beams were _right there_ under his hands. He smiled as he felt the Lion come alive all around him.

“Finally,” he whispered, and his eyes snapped open, his heart full of savage joy. “Are you ready, team?”

“ _Ready!”_ five voices rang true in his ears.

“Launch!” he barked, and whooped with glee as the Lion surged upward.

He had missed this. Oh, God, he had missed this! He felt the Lion's power core pulsing as though it were his own heart, and when the Lions came out of the towers and into the infinite, star-washed expanse of outer space, open and free, it was almost an epiphany. The joy of the Lion was in flight, and both of them had been cooped up for far too long. He was aware of the others now, flying in formation with him, letting him get the cabin fever out of his system before calling him to duty. He was thankful for that. It felt so good to fly again.

They'd found a good place to do so, that was for sure. Off in the distance, a fearsome little sun was drawing sheets of fire off of an old red dwarf, like a child eating a roll of cotton candy. Out here in the further orbits were a choice selection of planets and asteroid belts to test his reflexes on, and he indulged himself in doing something that he'd always wanted to try. Wide rings like those of Saturn's encircled a large burgundy-and-orange gas giant, and he sent Black skimming just above the fields of dust as though they were a racetrack. He circled the planet twice, dodging larger asteroids and numerous tiny moonlets, before allowing himself to pay any attention at all to the rest of his team.

“--flying just fine, Allura,” Pidge was saying, “no signs of stress, and both of them are really happy. We're going to have to work out an alternating flight schedule for you two.”

“ _To tell you the truth, I'll be glad of it,”_ Allura admitted with only a little reluctance in her tone. _“The Castle has missed having me at the helm, and you must admit that the command deck is pleasantly roomy. It frees Zaianne to do other things as well.”_

“Yeah, Mom's getting bored,” Keith said. “You'll need to work out a schedule with her, too.”

Allura giggled. _“I can relate. Back when we were just getting started, I used to be terribly envious of all of you whenever you went down to a planet for a quick adventure. You still owe me a trip to that Space Mall, I'll have you know! Lanteschi was very pleasant, but I haven't been to a true Mall in ages.”_

“Millennia,” Hunk agreed. “Tell you what, you can come with me when I go there to get my cow. _Yes,_ guys, I still want that cow. I will have that cow. You can go and scare all of your favorite stores, but I'm getting myself a cow.”

“Heard and acknowledged, Hunk,” Lance said cheerfully. “Maybe you can check in with that fast-food guy you got tangled up with last time, and see if he's still doing it right. Hey, Keith, you want to poke that knife salesman into a running-with-scissors competition?”

“Been there, done that, got busted and rode away on a flying robot cow,” Keith grumped. “He tried to steal Mom's knife.”

“Well, yeah,” Pidge pointed out. “He's an Unilu. Luxite blades are really rare.”

There was a _hmph_ from the Castle. _“I don't see what relative scarcity has to do with a proper sharp-objects footrace, particularly ones with a decent obstacle course. My great-aunt used to run those regularly, particularly in the months leading up to the Feast of the Five Huoloptomar Quoquoids.”_

“ _Really, Coran,”_ Allura chided impatiently.

“ _Every bit of it!”_ Coran declared irrepressibly. _“That was a major gift-giving holiday, for those of you who've never heard of it, a bit like that one that happens on Earth... Crazed-Mess or Crashed-Mass or whatever they call it--”_

“Christmas,” Lance said, sounding mildly offended.

“ _Whatever,”_ Coran continued without missing a beat. _“It's a pretty good name for that sort of holiday, I'll admit, at least from a retail worker's point of view, but the Feast traditionally involved getting the youngsters their first set of adult cutlery. Auntie used to do her shopping down in Altanis City, where the really big mercantile centers were, and you had to be as fast as a speeding tweltha, strong as an industrial freight-mech, and as nimble as a pilitrip on a t'voffi mip ploquez, just to get to the checkout line in one piece. Very dangerous, those holiday crowds, and liable to stampede without warning. We used to tell her that at her age, she should just be sending someone out or even ordering her items for delivery, but no! That fierce old lady was determined to do it the old-fashioned way for as long as she could still turbocharge a shopping cart, and—eek!”_

“ _Thank you, Zaianne,”_ Allura said gratefully.

There was a ladylike snort. _“Every time Coran tells silly stories, his ears grow longer. I'm just keeping him from eventually tripping himself up.”_

“ _Madame!”_ Coran protested.

Shiro smiled at the ripple of laughter from his team.

“You've got that wrong, Mom,” Keith said, “it's the nose that grows, not the ears.”

“ _For Humans, perhaps,”_ Zaianne replied lightly. _“Alteans are a bit different.”_

There was a chuckle from the _Chimera._ _“Else he'd be forever catching his nose in cabinets and doorways, and he'd squawk even louder. Count your blessings, Brother Mine. How are you feeling, Shiro?”_

“I'm fine, Lizenne,” Shiro responded calmly. “Black's glad to have me back, and to tell you the truth, I needed this. Both of us did. We'll be able to fight and to form Voltron without any trouble.”

Lizenne hummed thoughtfully. _“Perhaps, but we'll still want to make progress with caution. You are still not up to strength, and I don't want you overexerting yourself if you don't absolutely have to. Don't argue! One wrong move at this stage could land you in the infirmary for a week.”_

“She's right, Chief,” Lance chimed in. “We all had to go through the same recovery procedure after Haggar death-rayed us. Well, maybe not Pidge. She was too busy learning to pirate.”

Pidge made a rather smug affirmative sound. “Uh-huh! Of course, it helped that Doc's magic at what he does. We need to find his people's homeworld and liberate it, guys. Ophlicas are amazing people, and space needs more of them.”

“No argument there,” Hunk added. “When I took Pidge to—whoa!”

Alarms blared; three Galra ships had warped into nearby space without warning. This was probably just a patrol squad, being one heavy cruiser and a couple of light destroyers, by no means a real challenge for the Paladins these days, but they still came as a surprise. There was a moment of startled silence on both sides, and then the patrol's commander hailed them.

“ _Paladins of Voltron, I order you to--”_

It was at that point that the Black Lion did something unexpected. Broadcasting loud and clear on all channels, he belted out a challenge of his own, the message unchanged since the early 1990's. _“Yo, I'll tell you what I want, what I really, really want--”_

“ _Pidge!”_ Shiro protested, trying desperately not to laugh. “I didn't do anything!”

“Just making sure, Shiro,” Pidge said sternly. “Nothing wrong with a little positive reinforcement.”

Keith didn't much care for the old teen-girl band's music. “You call this 'positive'?”

“Well, _I_ like it.”

So did Lance and Hunk, who began to sing along, complete with bad British accents. _“I wanna really-really-really wanna zigazig ah!”_

Allura groaned. _“I cannot take you people anywhere, not even out to the depths of unexplored space! You simply cannot maintain the dignity proper to the Voltron Force.”_

“ _I_ can,” Keith complained, “but I'm surrounded by goofballs.”

“ _Um... Paladins?”_ the Galra commander asked, sounding utterly mystified. _“What is going on?”_

Keith groaned. “Oh, god. Pidge, did you set the black Lion so that those guys could hear it, too?”

“Yup!” Pidge chirped.

“Crud. Just shoot me now.”

“ _I won't be hasty, I'll give you a try, but if you really bug me then I'll say goodbye...”_ Hunk crooned tunefully.

Shiro burst out into hoots of helpless laughter. This was wrong on so many levels, but it was so _funny._ He could hear Allura trying to get the others to take their situation seriously, Keith's mortified protests, Pidge snarking at them both, the increasingly baffled enemy trying to get a word in edgewise, and Hunk singing backup while Lance proclaimed pompously, _“So, here's the story from A to Z—you wanna get with me, you gotta listen carefully. We got Em in the place who likes it in your face, you got G like MC who likes it on a easy V—doesn't come for free--”_

“ _She's a real lady,”_ Hunk added.

“ _And as for me, ha, you'll see,”_ Lance continued smoothly, and then they both sang together, _“Slam your body down and wind it all around!”_

“ _This isn't some new kind of battle tactic, is it?”_ the Galra Commander asked suspiciously.

The thought of the Spice Girls riding into battle in the manner of the  _Ride of the Valkyries_ sent Shiro into fresh howls of hilarity. Some of them really would wear the brass brassieres and the flying helmets, and when one of that poor fellow's lieutenants asked,  _“Sir, what's a 'zigazig ah'?”_ it just got worse.

“Breathe, Shiro,” Pidge said.

“I'm... I'm trying,” Shiro gasped, unable to stop his mirth. “We... we should... really form Voltron... or something. Cut it out, guys.”

“ _If you wanna be my lover,”_ chorused Lance and Hunk, ignoring him, _“you have got to give. Taking is too easy, and that's the way it is...”_

“Will somebody just start shooting already?” Keith yelled.

“ _Keith!”_ Allura scolded, _“We agreed that we weren't going to get Shiro into any battles, and he's laughing too hard to pilot the Lion effectively. Oh, dear, and we've set him off again. Shiro, please try to get that under control!”_

“ _Slam your body down and zigazig ah,”_ Lance drawled deliciously.

“ _If you wanna be my lover,”_ Hunk sang, finishing the song with a grin. “Okay, we can fight now. Who wants to start?”

Shiro was still laughing.

Keith said something that he'd heard from his mother, which had the interesting ability to strip paint off of walls when pronounced exactly right.

Allura was muttering darkly about getting them all lessons in deportment.

Pidge blew her a raspberry.

Lance was snickering at the rest of them.

“Okay,” Hunk said, “maybe we should take a rain-check?”

There was a tired sigh from the enemy flagship. _“Paladins,”_ the Commander said grimly, _“where I come from, it is considered bad luck to fight crazy people.”_

“Well, he's got us pegged,” Lance muttered.

“Shut up, Lance,” Keith growled back.

The Commander ignored that, and continued. _“You will proceed on your current heading, and we will proceed upon ours; neither of us will ever speak of this encounter again.”_

“S... sorry,” Shiro choked out.

Pidge giggled. “Yeah, and we'd have taken you apart, anyway. See you later, guys.”

“Cheers,” Lance said, waving them on.

The three Galra ships sailed past with what dignity they could muster, guns silent and running lights glimmering. Allura growled under her breath. “Well, that's the first time that I have ever seen someone actually being laughed off of a potential battlefield. Get back on board, all of you. I am very disappointed with your childish behavior.”

“Yes, Mom,” Hunk said meekly, which just set Shiro off into another storm of helpless chortles.

Meanwhile, on the deck of the heavy cruiser, the Commander of the patrol squad watched the Castle of Lions and the _Chimera Rising_ diminish to tiny bright points in the rear-view screens. There was a flicker of watery blue—the teludav system creating a wormhole, he knew, and then they were gone.

“We aren't just going to let them go like that, are we?” one of his lieutenants asked uncertainly.

The Commander shrugged. “We already have. In any case, the green Paladin was right; the Lions would indeed have made short work of us. There are others who are better equipped to handle them; Perkaz, is the Prince still in the area?”

His comm officer touched a few controls, and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Very good. Tell him that we spotted the Castle here, but do not include any other details of our encounter. I would hate to ruin the surprise for either of them.”

Perkaz smirked. “I'll alert the Center, too. Between the Prince and his father, there should be surprises all around.”

The Commander snorted a brief laugh. “Yes, do that. It does not do to let the Emperor become bored.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No no, never let an Emperor get bored. They do bad things when bored...
> 
> Comments are to us what cream pies and rubber chickens are to circus clowns; the stuff of life itself. Also, no clowns were involved in the making of this fic (unless you count two obviously insane writers), so read with the confidence of a Pennywise-free environment! ^_^


	9. Small Triumphs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry again for updating late! My vacation starts at the end of the week, which means my brain packed up and left somewhere around noon yesterday. ^_~ Hopefully you will all find this chapter to be enjoyable, so have fun reading!

Chapter 9: Small Triumphs

“Impressive,” Zarkon murmured, gazing down at the monster under construction. “Have you chosen a subject for it?”

Haggar nodded, eyeing her work critically. It was a sleeker thing than its predecessors, all silvery angles and knife-sharp edges, and while it wasn't quite as large as the others had been, it would be both faster and stronger. The motivating element was entirely appropriate as well. “I have,” she replied. “A captured pirate. The Ghamparva have already wrung everything of use to them out of it, saving me some time. Once inserted into this frame, it will hunt down its former fellows and destroy them. Those pirates are the military might of the Paladins' little Coalition, and I grow tired of them.”

Zarkon smiled unpleasantly. “And the Paladins value their colleagues. I have been informed that the Castle has been spotted in the same sector that Lotor is currently haunting. It should be interesting if he should attempt to steal this creature's prey.”

Haggar humphed in distaste. “If he tries, he will regret it. This Robeast will perform its duty, and it will not allow anyone to stand in its way. The boy will learn discretion, or he will die.”

“A hard lesson for any young man,” Zarkon murmured, remembering a few of his own learning experiences. “I am out of patience with him myself. His excuses have been entertaining, but they have ceased to amuse me.”

Haggar smirked slightly; word had come back to them concerning the Prince's run-in with one of the rare creatures that fed on Weblums. She herself had once made a study of the peculiar ecosystem of space itself, long and long ago, and could still recall how fascinated she had been by the spacefaring giants, beasts that had evolved their own personal stardrives and needed neither planets nor atmosphere for anything other than the occasional snack. She and Zarkon had agreed that such creatures were best left undisturbed, and the Empire's forces had followed suit. Aside from the odd side-product of rare minerals to be obtained from following the beasts around, they were largely useless, and were always hazardous to provoke.

“And should he succeed, and take the Lions himself?” she asked lightly.

Zarkon shrugged indifferently. “If he tries to keep them for himself, I will destroy him. If he wishes to gain my favor by delivering them to me, then he will get the pat on the head that he so desires, and perhaps a reward as well. His first encounter with the Altean girl did not go as well as he had hoped. Perhaps one of those control implants that the Ghamparva are so fond of might make things a little easier for him.”

“ _After_ I find a way to remove her power,” Haggar said sharply, and then growled. “And preferably from all of the others as well. I have never before seen such a grouping of talents, nor of such strength. You will not offer the boy a Lion, will you?”

“No,” Zarkon said bluntly, “although I have allowed him to hope. He has failed me too often, and lacks sense, particularly when angered. There are others who possess far better self-control. Perhaps the next batch of sons will produce something more satisfactory. I can wait.” He paused for a long moment, eyes growing distant and slightly unfocused, and then seemed to shake himself back into the here and now with a grimace of distaste. “He means nothing.”

She glanced at him, but did not reply; in any other time than this, she might have agreed with him, but not now, and she felt a twinge of unease whenever she contemplated it. Her attempts to scry out the future had been unusually lacking in success, and in a way that was making her increasingly nervous. When properly stimulated by a fresh dose of Quintessence, she could See upcoming events with reasonable clarity, but something had cast a shadow over the Lions, hiding them from her Sight. A shadow with a peculiar shape, and an aura that she did not quite dare to challenge at this time. Had it been a protective measure made by that Rogue Witch, she would have shattered it like glass, but it was not. She had no idea of what had cast it, and the mystery was troublesome to say the least. Something about it nagged at her nerves, right down at the bottom of her subconscious, telling her that it was a danger that she had faced before, once upon a very long time ago. A very terrible danger. It had come after her with knives--

Haggar shook her head impatiently. Adversaries had come at her with weapons ranging from academic policy changes to guns as big as cities for all of her long life, and she had defeated every last one. Voltron was just another insult in an extensive litany of the same. The only thing that made this batch of troublemakers more dangerous than any other was their sheer unpredictability, which could be dealt with by using the vast amount of experience that she'd gained over the years. Zarkon was no different, and yearned for another test of strength against them. That was fine, she decided. He could have the red, blue, and even the yellow Paladins with her blessing, and even whatever the Rogue Witch might have cobbled together out of what had been left of the Champion if he'd like; the pink and green ones, however, were hers. When she was done with them, there would be nothing left but two small piles of elemental carbon.

“Perhaps,” she murmured, “and perhaps it is time to establish a new hierarchy. The High Houses are not producing sufficient numbers of strong witches any longer, nor do your Consorts produce useful Princes, and they are growing troublesome with their plots and peculations. A little fresh blood may well be in order.”

Zarkon frowned slightly. “You have a private source for strong Druids.”

“They do not reproduce fast enough to replace the ones I have lost, my Lord,” Haggar said sharply. “The Paladins have cost me dearly, and the powerful Houses are reluctant to turn over the few decent examples that they have, and are insolent enough about it to tempt me into seeing to their destruction.”

Zarkon smiled at her and nodded at the elegant creature taking shape on the production floor below. “Oh, they have their uses yet. If that array down there can indeed produce a greater volume of Robeasts than the original one, you may pick and choose your subjects from the blue-blooded as you like. We will remind them that their high status does not protect them from my displeasure. You may freely select from among my sons as well. There are more than enough of them to spare, and they have not exactly proven themselves to be of worth to my House.”

Haggar chuckled darkly. Lotor might also become one such candidate, if he failed as badly as she thought he might. “Thank you, my Lord.”

Allura couldn't sleep.

She couldn't quite figure out why not. It had been a very busy day, after all. Hunk had produced a delicious breakfast, which had been followed by a stiff session in the training deck. Now that Shiro could fly again, he was determined to bring himself back to full strength as quickly as possible, and had agreed to let Lizenne and Zaianne push his limits a little. What a fight that had been! Lizenne might have left her spear on its stand, but she'd brought along two hexed gladiator-drones, and Zaianne had not neglected her own training in the slightest. If Modhri had not called a halt, they might have done some serious damage to the training deck, if not to each other. She still wasn't sure who had won that bout, but Shiro had taken no harm from it. He'd been reluctant to stop, as a matter of fact, until Modhri had pointed out the slight tremor in his sword arm. They'd had a short rest after that, and then Nasty had decided that his own sort of training session had been in order. That had been fun, if strenuous, and it had given her something of an insight into the Unilu's culture. Situational awareness, for example—walking down dark and dangerous places without getting hurt, captured, or killed when the ambush happened. Obstacle courses and simulated rooftop chases. Climbing and leaping, and learning to make a weapon out of anything that came to hand. Sabotage in all of its permutations. The ability to move smoothly through a crowd without attracting any notice, and interestingly, the ability to move through enemy territory without attracting notice in much the same way. How to gain access to secured places, and more importantly, how to get out of them again. The art of the decoy and distraction, how to trip up a seemingly overwhelming force, how to bring a knife to a gunfight and win anyway, and the best ways of fighting dirty in close-quarters combat.

“Honor is for idiots,” Nasty had said bluntly. “It's just another kind of showing off, and showing off gets the wrong people dead. The whole point of all of this is to get the job done as quickly as you can, as easy as you can make it, and with the least amount of risk to yourselves as possible. Save the honor for formal duels and ritual combat if you really have to, but rules only exist in people's heads. If they aren't your rules, they're only worth knowing because they tell you what your enemies won't do, and you can take advantage of that. Your survival is more important than a list of restrictions written up by some guy who was too squeamish to hit below the belt.”

Zaianne, Allura recalled, had approved heartily of this rationale, and had a few rather vicious tricks of her own to share. That had kept them all very busy until dinner, which had been— _and may the Ancients bless them twice over,_ Allura thought—cooked by Coran and Modhri. They had all discussed strategies over that meal, and which planet they might liberate next; a difficult choice—there were so very many. By all rights, she should have been asleep before her head had hit her pillow, but her limbs twitched restlessly and her mind was a spinning-top of fragmenting thoughts. Well, there were ways around the problem. Coran would no doubt suggest a steaming cup of hot vopli and a really boring technical manual. Her own mother had prescribed soothing music, a pot of fragrant juniberry flowers, and a nice view of the stars or of the ocean. Her father, as she recalled, had never had any trouble getting to sleep; the trouble had been getting him out of bed in the morning if something wasn't actively attacking the planet. She sighed. Vopli was effective, but it tasted like week-old socks in her private opinion, and juniberries, as far as she knew, bloomed only upon two unreachable planets in this day and age. She had plenty of stars to look at, and even some soothing music, but while her ears and eyes would be happy, the rest of her would still be jumping.

She sighed and climbed out of bed, knowing what she really needed. Her life had changed drastically when Shiro had disappeared into the Mindscape, becoming far more active than she had ever dreamed possible, and languor no longer came easily to her. She was a warrior now, and warriors had other ways of relaxing. Modhri had taught her one way, during that long period of recovery after Haggar had cursed them—a set of exercises that would warm and soothe both body and mind. There really wasn't enough room for her to perform those exercises here, so, still in her pajamas, she padded down to the training deck to work the kinks out.

She hadn't been alone in her inability to sleep, she found when she arrived. Music was playing softly in one of the smaller rooms, and when she looked in, she saw something unexpectedly attractive. Hunk was standing barefoot in the center of the room, eyes closed and his face a mask of concentration, pajama pants rolled up above the knee and his shirt off, performing the same stretches and lunges that her own body yearned for. He was remarkably graceful for someone so broad, and magnificently muscular. He was beautiful, in his way, she realized. Not as an Altean would describe it, but powerfully so all the same, and she felt herself flushing when a small sly voice at the bottom of her mind, a voice that sounded suspiciously like her Lion's, suggested what it might be like to touch that smooth brown skin, to feel the strength of that body against her own.

As if he felt her sudden confusion—and considering the Lion-bond, he might have—Hunk's dark eyes opened, and he gave her a welcoming smile. “Hi,” he said, “you couldn't sleep, either?”

“No,” she admitted, stepping into the room. “I feel like I've overloaded on energy drinks, and I can't stay still.”

Hunk grimaced ruefully. “Yeah, me too. There's just so much stuff to do, and to think about, and it all should've gotten done, like, ten thousand years ago, but it didn't 'cause no one was there to do it. It gets to me after a while, you know?”

“I know it very well, and it weighs on me,” Allura sighed. “Most of the time I daren't think of it at all, or it becomes overwhelming. Our allies are helping to carry the load, but they all still look to us for... for...” she waved her hands in inarticulate frustration. “Everything.”

“Yeah,” Hunk said quietly. “It's hard, and we can't afford to do it wrong even once. Nobody ever told me that being a space hero would be an ulcer job.”

Allura giggled. “Father used to complain about that.”

“I'll bet. Care to join me?” Hunk asked. “I've still got a lot of knots to work out, and you need it as much as I do.”

She smiled warmly at him. “I should be delighted.”

She stepped up beside him and assumed the stance for the first set, and when she moved, he moved with her in perfect unison. For a time, she concentrated wholly on what she was doing, and felt her body respond; each slow, controlled movement loosened her up a little more, and after a time she felt muscle and bone working together as smooth as silk, and her mind cleared enough to pay some attention to the music. It was one of the pieces that Lizenne had picked up from Earth on that long-ago mail run, something slow and full of heartfelt yearning. Altean and Earthly musical traditions were in some ways very similar, although she found some of their songs too jarring for her sensibilities. This one was all right, she felt, the tempo suiting the pace of her exercises very well, and the singer possessed a mellifluous voice. It was easy, so very easy, for her exercises to slip into being dance moves in truth, and when Hunk's broad, warm hand gently caught hers, she did not pull away.

Allura had never danced like this before. In those long-ago days when she and her parents had hosted formal events, she had danced decorously with uncles, cousins, and her own father. She had taken turns around the floor with dozens of delegates and hopeful young Altean lords. She had indulged Coran once or twice as well, just for the fun of it, since he simply couldn't resist adding a great deal of fancy footwork to the measured steps of Courtly dance, but her heart had never been in it. She'd never felt anything deeper than simple friendship for those unrelated to her, and little more than dutiful toward the alien dignitaries. Hunk danced as though he were a part of her. She could feel his heartbeat as surely as she felt her own, the warmth and steadiness of him, the unfailing affection he had for her and for the others. It was the most natural thing in the world to wrap her arm around his waist, and to feel his holding her close as the song came to its conclusion, and when their lips met in the first kiss that had ever meant anything beyond familial love, it sent a shock from her scalp to her toes. Nerves fizzing, she heard the Lions roar, and felt the other Paladins shift in their dreams.

Hunk held her close against him with a soft sigh as the last few bars of the music trailed gently away, and then snorted in amusement. “Yellow's purring,” he murmured softly.

Allura rested her head on his shoulder and smiled wryly. “So is Black. Oh, dear.”

They stood there for a little time, reflecting on nothing much, basking in the tender moment they shared between them. Eventually, she rubbed a hand against his chest, finding his skin to be just as sleek as she had hoped, and looked up, just a little worried. “Lance is going to be bitterly envious.”

Hunk smiled down at her, radiating affection. “So, he gets the next kiss. Just give him his before Keith gets one and he'll be fine. I don't mind, Allura.”

She giggled. “Coran did warn us that this would happen. Oh, dear, he'll be upset, too. I don't think that he ever intended me to share in this sort of thing. He _is_ my legal guardian, you know.”

Hunk humphed faintly. “Don't worry about it. In the end, it's not his choice. That's all for later, anyway. For now...”

“...For right now, just hold me,” she said, leaning into his embrace. “Just hold me.”

Hunk was perfectly willing to do just that. “Okay,” he said, and rested his cheek against the soft white silk of her hair.

Unseen and unnoticed out in the hall, Zaianne watched them with a fond smile.

Nasty was sulking. Even by the Ulomnian calendar, his month was almost up, and he still hadn't found that last butterknife. He'd been through every inch of the Castle, minus the off-limits areas, and had even checked every pod and lander. He'd dug around in the Hydroponics deck despite the risk of aggressive fertilizers—some of that stuff was pretty lively, even for compost—he'd checked all of the junction boxes and ventilation shafts, he'd even poked around in the Lion's hangar bays, and had found nothing. Even now, the Castle was making its way back toward Halidex for a conference with the King and the Ghost Fleet to hammer out the next phase of their operations, and once they arrived, there would be no more excuses. If he did not find that last butterknife, Nasty would...

...He shuddered even to think the word...

...Lose.

He didn't dare do that. It wasn't that the silverware set amounted to several pounds of pure silver. It didn't matter that the pattern was unique, or that the set was a very special limited edition, nor even that it had been made in a genuine Altean ship by a genuine Altean fabricator. What mattered was his pride in his skills at infiltration and treasure-hunting. Despite his banishment, his clan had been notable for its high levels of skill and specialized techniques, and his Granny was still a record-setter even in her advanced old age. He himself had been accounted to be a young man of great potential, right up to the dreadful day many years ago when his pride in his abilities had led him into a terrible mistake; a mistake that had cost him everything. He still had that pride, tempered though it was with hard-learned caution and a hefty dose of occupational paranoia, and the very thought of coming in second on even this most congenial of contracts soured his very soul. If he blew it this time, then he would have to concede that maybe, just maybe, the Clan Head had been right about him all along. _Clever,_ the old man had said, sneering as only a Clan Head could sneer, _but unable to follow through._

That might have been true once, he thought determinedly as he hunted through Pidge's lab for the fifteenth time, but years of running scams in seamy spaceports and crewing on corsairs had taught him better. Hadn't he survived where others had crashed and burned? Hadn't he picked the tightest pockets, burgled the hardest targets, and played the most skillfully at the Dix-Par tables? He could hold his own when Tilla had been fiddling the deck again, for Lawsy's sake, and that dragon could confound any cardsharp! He had stolen a one-of-a-kind suit of armor from Haggar's own private labs, and had picked the locks on the gates of Hell itself... oh, all right, so it was just the locks on the lab doors, but anyone would agree that the place was about as hellish as they came. He'd asked Shiro, and Shiro had been there twice and should know.

He was elbow-deep in Pidge's junk bin when someone behind him asked, “Missing something?”

Nasty whirled around, spraying bits and pieces of surplus machinery. It was only Keith, thankfully. Keith had a refreshingly relaxed attitude toward the occasional bit of pilferage most of the time. “A butterknife,” Nasty growled, unable to keep the frustration out of his voice. “One last butterknife, and I can't find it, and it's driving me mad! I've only got a little time left to find it, or I'll have to give all the pieces back.”

Keith nodded gravely. His Galra half might have made him just a little humorless, but that meant that he usually took the important things a little more seriously than the others did. “Yeah, that wouldn't be good for your street cred, now would it? And I'll bet that you aren't allowed to ask for help.”

Nasty wrapped his arms around Keith's waist in a hug and sniffled, “Finally, someone who really understands! How'd you know?”

Keith shrugged. “I grew up on a military base without much adult supervision. Not until I met Shiro, anyway. There weren't any other kids my own age there, and a lot of the people there had no problems with teaching a kid bad habits. Where I come from, Nasty, the military is a favorite place for the courts to dump problem teens. Now get your hands out of my pockets.”

Nasty pulled away with an appreciative grin, and a cookie that he hadn't had before. He eyed that, and then handed it back. “Orsyx jam. Bleah. Is it a rule that heroes can't carry around nice fat wallets?”

Keith snorted. “We're not getting paid for it, Nasty. We get our supplies from the Ghost fleet, or people give the stuff to us for chasing the Galra off, or we give the Blades some stuff to sell for us if we need actual money. There aren't all that many of us, and the Castle's self-maintaining. We're fairly cheap to operate, especially with the _Chimera's_ envirodeck providing a few treats now and again.”

Keith's eyes gleamed at his mention of those treats, and just for a split second, his face was a predator's. It was hard to see most of the time, but his eyes had developed a thin ring of Galra gold around the dark irises, and they glinted whenever he thought about chasing some large, dangerous beast or other through the grasses. Nasty's people had evolved from middling-sized scavengers, and he couldn't help but feel just a twinge of instinctive unease whenever he saw it. Offhandedly, he wondered if the boy knew of this development, or the fact that he was starting to go just a little bit purple under his hair. Hard to spot, yes, but Unilu were very, very good at spotting small details.

Nasty humphed. “I still think you guys are selling yourselves short. I'd offer myself to you as a manager, but Coran would say that he's doing that job already, and then I'd have to ask where the profits are, and then he'd get stuffy about that, and then it would escalate, and then Zaianne would stick us both with sitting in the corner again. That's boring. Don't Alteans ever use colors other than white for home decorating?”

Keith leaned back against the nearby table and gazed up at the pale walls. “I don't know. The only place where we can check has half of Zarkon's navy and a really big force-field around it. Maybe it's a royal color or something. Our kings and emperors liked red, purple, and yellow, and sometimes dark blue. I'll ask Coran about it sometime.”

“Don't. He'll just wind up telling you stories again.” Nasty rolled his eyes and resumed his search of the junk bin. “That guy's either the best or the worst liar in the galaxy, and you can't even tell when he's doing it, because most of the peoples that he mentions in them are extinct. Did you want something from me, Keith?”

“Not personally, but Mom sent me here to tell you that we'll be arriving at Halidex in a few hours, so you'd probably better pack up your stuff.”

“ _What?!”_ Nasty squawked in chagrin, horrified eyes bulging. “Already? I thought we had at least two more days!”

Keith shook his head. “Nope. Jasca sent the local Garrisons some fake Imperial orders and the fleets cleared right out of our way. Get her to show the vid to you sometime—they're letting Kelezar impersonate his grandpa on air now, and he's really good.”

“ _Aaaaagh!_ No, he's not, he's just stolen all of my time!” Nasty tipped the bin out onto the floor, searched frantically through the piles of junk, found nothing, and then ran screaming out of the room.

Keith smirked and cleaned up his mess, listening to the Lions laugh in the back of his mind.

The next two hours were spent in a mad scramble as Nasty hunted desperately through all of the trickiest and most unlikely corners of the huge Altean ship, but was forced to concede defeat when Allura's voice over the PA system informed him that they had arrived at their destination. Knowing that it would take a little while to ease into a stable parking orbit, Nasty headed up to his room in a fog of dejection. He packed up his belongings with the skill and efficiency of a long-time traveler, but his fingers lingered over each gleaming place setting as he laid the silverware into a separate crate. It hurt him right down to the core to let those go without stealing so much as the jitlan tongs, but it was completely unthinkable even for an unclanned outcast to steal from a guesting set. With a soft, sad sigh, he closed the lid and keyed the antigravs, and then headed down to the shuttle bay to—he shuddered—give them back.

The Paladins were already there, along with the mice, dragons, Coran, and Zaianne. They'd been waiting for him, damn it. Was it too much to ask that he be left behind by mistake? He had the perfectly good excuse of not being able to fly an Altean craft all lined up, and here it was, going to waste. It was a shame, he thought, that his pride forbade him from pouting, because he would have really liked to do so right now. It was more out of sheer, ingrained habit that he looked them over for pickable pockets than anything else. Big, solid Hunk (belt pouches: likely to contain cookies, handcomp, and interesting widgets), tall, imposing Shiro (more belt pouches, side pockets on upper garment: lists, memos, cookies, handcomp, occasional hand tools), and Lance (multiple pockets in jacket, hip pockets in trousers: handcomp, tweezers, combs, cookies, hair and skin care products, lucky half-gac coin not worth the metal it was stamped out of).

Standing nearby and chatting with disgusting cheerfulness were Allura (no visible pockets or pouches, attempts to find some may result in broken wrist), Coran (also no visible pockets or pouches, attempts to find some may result in anecdotes), and Zaianne (hip pockets in trousers, Marmoran blade in concealed belt, and pouch hanging from sash: do not attempt if one wishes to keep all four hands, she really meant it last time).

Checking over the largest lander were the dragons, each one carrying two mice (no pockets or pouches, and no funny stuff around the scales because of big sharp teeth), Keith (belt pouches, pockets in jacket: cookies, Dix-Par deck, assorted small tools, special whetstone for Marmoran blade, leave the actual blade alone or be filleted, he wasn't kidding last time), and Varda, of course (hip pockets in shorts: often booby-trapped; approach with caution, except when... except _when there was something long and thin in there and a bit is sticking out and it's silver and_ holy spratz _THERE IT IS!!!)_

Pidge turned, spotted him, and said with a smile, “Hey, Nasty, they're sending us up a bus to take us all down and—ACK!”

Nasty had tackled her to the floor in one fantastic flying leap, and in a twinkling, he had the last butterknife clutched in all four hands. Grinning triumphantly, he raised it on high, the elegantly-curved blade glinting brightly in the light. “Got it!” he exulted, “I've got it! I've got them all! Sweet last-minute finish and everything! _I win!_ Woo-hooo!”

Nasty then proceeded to jig madly around in a victory dance, whooping happily.

“That was kind of you,” Coran observed, giving Pidge a hand up. “Where had you hidden it?”

Pidge grinned and straightened her glasses. “In the wall, just outside my door. I bribed Chuchule to pull it in through one of their own secret admits. He could have found it if he'd just dismantled half of the bulkhead first, but Hunk would have gotten mad.”

“All the same, it's poor form to shame a guest when he's been on his best behavior, which he has been,” Coran said primly. “Hardly any larceny at all, really, and he has been very good about teaching you all of his little tricks. I'd say that he deserved a triumph at the last minute. Did he ever manage to crack the locks on the Castle's treasury, Allura?”

Allura giggled. “Twice, but I'd moved the contents out and replaced them with boxes of cookies. He never did locate the actual treasure.”

“All the same, it's the thought that counts,” Coran continued blithely. “The fact that he did manage to break into a genuine royal vault twice is nothing to be sneezed at. Did he steal any of the cookies?”

“Three boxes of the ones with the quec nuts, and he left a note asking for more, the first time.” Allura cast a fond look at their mentor. “And yes, I did provide them for the second attempt.”

Pidge sighed. “It's been fun, but I'm going to miss him. We need to keep more people around the house, guys. It's no fun anymore when it's just us.”

Shiro smiled at her. “Maybe we can ask Kolivan for a few of his men, or something. They're handy to have around, and perhaps Zaianne would like some quality time with her colleagues.”

“That would be nice,” Zaianne said thoughtfully. “I'll ask him in a little time; here comes the bus.”

The bus was a repurposed tourist shuttle, and thankfully someone had warned the Halidexans about the dragons; it was basically one huge cabin with only enough seats for the group, plus the pilot, who was full of admiration for all of them. And full of news, as it turned out.

“The conference has been pushed back a few hours,” he told them as he brought his shuttle gracefully down into the near orbits. “The King allowed as how it was best held in the Great Hall and that's good 'cause it's big enough even for those two fine beasties you've got there, but the Palace staff is having a personality failure about it.”

“Really?” Allura asked.

“Pharka's Crest, yes, Princess,” the pilot replied, waggling his ears in consternation. “The Majordomo's haughty enough for three Grand Duchesses and a Viscount and the palace staff all take their cues from him. He just couldn't handle the fact that he had to play host to a gang of pirates—sorry, Princess, but that's what they are—and went and locked himself in the third-floor linen closet, and they haven't been able to persuade him to come out yet. The rest of the upstairs staff aren't much better, and just finding the right kind of furniture for half of your pirate captains has been driving them crazy all week. The maidstaff are objecting to having marauders all over their nice clean floors, but the kitchen staff is a little better. They, at least, could go to the Cooking Academy and get Ronok to help out. I think that the Palace chefs have set up a shrine to the old man. He's a little bit of a hero over there right now.”

Pidge smiled proudly. “He's my uncle and will always be my hero.”

“You're not the only one who thinks that, trust me,” the pilot said with a nod in her direction. “When he first arrived, he tested out the kitchen equipment by making a big batch of deppa tarts, which he shared out to the staff. Lady, there were spork fights over the last platter! People were getting runcibled right and left, they were that good! The Queen wanted to add him to the Palace roster, but he said she was better off letting him teach, so that there would be lots of cooks of his caliber later on. He's right, but that doesn't stop her from sending her page boys down to the school now and again to request a special treat.”

“Cool,” Hunk said happily. “So, what will we be doing while the staff gets the place ready?”

“You guys get to go and check out Pirate Town,” the pilot replied. “That Abyoran's a really good city planner, you know that?”

Lance lifted an eyebrow at him. “Pirate Town? That's what they're calling it?”

The pilot rolled his eyes. “Yeah, sorry. Look, we did all the usual things people do when they name a new neighborhood, okay? We held a vote, we put out a suggestion box, we put up a list of possible names and threw darts at it, we've been arguing about it for _months._ The town's proper name is Uzenna Sa'ar, but translate it out to the common language and it comes up as 'Pirate Town'. Look, it was better than the one that the Minister of Law suggested—Caleg'mar Halsha, which means 'Hive of Scum and Villainy'. Most folks thought that was really funny, but not terribly polite.”

The Paladins couldn't help but snicker at that, and Keith rubbed wearily at his forehead. “All the geek points, guys. Okay, fine. Have you been there?”

“Are you joking? I head over there every Zwirsday.” The pilot paused for a few minutes as he eased them down into the planet's atmosphere. “There's a small but very nice gaming-house, several pubs, a dance club, a small theater, three arcades, a bunch of ethnic restaurants, a whole strip of shops and markets, a bank for aboveboard earnings and another for ill-got gains, and even an Unilu swap-shop. That one's attached to the Fleet Academy, to teach the trainees how to handle slick operators. It's actually turning into a bit of a tourist trap, but nobody minds 'cause it's boosting our economy in ways that we need right now.”

Zaianne gave the pilot a wry smile. “They pay taxes?”

“Sort of. Pirates hate the very word, so Yantilee cut the King a deal with wording that they like better.” The pilot flashed them a quick smile. “The Palace doesn't collect taxes from Pirate Town. The King gets a percentage of the loot. It's the same thing, but the Fleet people feel better about it.”

“Good!” Nasty said, his hands lingering on his silverware chest. “How about residences? I was too busy with this lot to pick out a manor house.”

The pilot carefully negotiated around a thunderstorm and flicked Nasty a quick smile over one shoulder. “Zoallam really hit the mark, there, sir. He did such a good job with the multi-racial housing in the residential blocks that the Minister of Habitations is all mad that his real estate speculators can't buy it all up. No manor houses for Unilu, sir. Lots of those skinny, tangled-up tenements that you guys like so much, though, with narrow alleys, hidden fountain squares, fly-by-night merchant stalls, secret tunnels, shadowy cul-de-sacs, walls with plenty of handholds, and sharply-peaked roofs, though.”

Nasty's expression grew beatific. “Tile roofs with large attic windows?”

The pilot gave him a positive hand gesture. “Yup. Also, skylights, trapdoors, a few solariums... and _gables.”_

“ _Gables,”_ whispered Nasty. “With gargoyles? What about weathervanes?”

“Those too, plus spires, ugly statuary, and the biggest tenement's got a rooftop shrine to your gods. The sacred crockery is stolen and returned at least twice a week, too. Residency office is on the southeast corner of the Town Hall, first floor, and the lady in charge of the Unilu section is the local haggling champion and senior housebreaker. Leave your luggage at the Thieves' Bank before you see her, or she'll strip you bare before you've had a chance to change the locks. If you need a job that doesn't involve crewing on the ships, the employment office is right next door.”

Nasty's hands clutched possessively at his treasure chest, but his smile was appreciative. “Nice. I'm going to enjoy it here.”

“That's the idea, sir,” the pilot said cheerfully. “The King wants to keep you guys around.”

Shiro smiled. “And you're doing a good job of being helpful. You work for the recruitment department, don't you?”

Their pilot whistled in amusement. “Card-carrying member. Truth to tell, our world needs the Fleet. You guys have done us more good than you know. Oh, hey, everybody look out the windows—we're approaching the port. Uzenna Sa'ar's that 'burb off to the east.”

Everybody turned to look, and there were quiet _oohs_ and _aahs_ from several of them. They had seen the royal palace before, and the large and gracious city that surrounded it. Several miles past the city limits and tucked into a shallow valley that had been empty the last time they'd been here was a sparkling-new habitation. Smaller than the royal city, of course, but very neatly laid out with its business and residential areas fitting in comfortably around a very large complex.

Keith blinked in confusion at the rather pretty suburb; he had a pretty good idea of what a pirate town should look like, and this clean, well-ordered resort town was not it. “It looks so normal.”

“Well, it _is_ only a year or so old,” the pilot pointed out. “Give it another hundred or so years and it'll seedy up a treat. Unilu neighborhood already has, but Unilu are sort of gifted in that area. Comes naturally to 'em.”

“That's right!” Nasty declared proudly. “We've been lowering the tone of the universe ever since we discovered spaceflight. It is our right and duty.”

“That's so, and you guys make our own criminal element feel inadequate. We've been too well-behaved for ages. Big campus is the Academy,” their pilot said proudly. “Even the Minister of War's willing to admit that it's better than the ones the Galra busted up. They teach the important stuff there, not just the bits that make you look good on the parade ground. Survival courses, mostly. How and when to fight, styles of fighting, dirty tricks, engineering for new ships, engineering for old ships, how to bash together a working spacecraft out of junk if you really need to, things like that. It's really popular.”

Lance snorted. “Sounds like it's more fun than Galaxy Garrison.”

“Of course it's fun!” the pilot replied. “Best way to make a person learn fast is to make a game of it. Or a really good challenge. Or a duty, or whatever. Make it _mean_ something, you know? It's all really hands-on training. Now, right next to it on the west side, you've got the storehouse district, only you can't see it 'cause it's all underground. Big, big bunkers that can double as refuges for the whole population if the Galra come back and start blowing holes in the cities. There are a bunch more smaller ones under the Town. Very handy for all sorts of things, and all interconnected. The Academy uses the network for training purposes, too, so it's common to see trainee teams scuttling around in the shadows. They get extra points if you _don't_ see them, so that's turned into a game, too.”

Keith hummed interestedly, peering at the west end where the only sign of that massive subterranean construction was a road heading down into a tunnel. Other than that, the area seemed to be parkland and sporting fields. “Nice. No parade grounds, though.”

“No parades, period,” the pilot said with just a hint of scorn. “Parading is for ceremonial troops. Some sports, though. Some of the Fleet peoples have cultural or religious games and things, so Zoallam made sure that they had room for them. Good for picnics and outdoor parties, too. Now, between the Academy and the living space, we've got the business strip where all the action happens. Nice neat grid, isn't it, and a main road like no other. Nobody else in the Sector's got such a mix of architectural styles, you know, and we've already had a lot of tourists in to study it. They named the main drag _Jalenet-Drath'Neva—_ Something For Everyone, and there is, too! Those two round buildings are the banks, by the way. Red one's the legit one, the yellow one's the Thieves' Bank. Next door down is the Town Hall, where the important stuff gets hashed out. North of those, see, that big, funny-shaped building with the garden space in back is the Cooking Academy, where your amazing uncle teaches people to feed the universe. See the wall around the garden? Twenty _voro_ tall and an _ult_ thick, to keep people from poaching the crops, and to give the big vines something to climb up.”

Hunk had a glint in his eyes. “I need to see that up close. Wait, wouldn't people just climb up the vines? Vines like to grow down the outside of walls, too.”

“Hah! Not more than once!” the pilot laughed. “Sometimes not even that. Those are Herutioan sticklevines. The berries are delicious, but you'll be pulling the stickles out of your hide all month if you try climbing on them. Ronok's got a passle of Nantileeri on the job as pest-control specialists, too. They'll steal your cookies every time, but the kids love 'em. Now, on the other side of that and spreading all the way down south to the lake, you've got living space. Another big draw for the architectural students, and set out in little cultural centers, 'cause it's a taste of home, right? You can see the Unilu bazaar from up here clear as day, but not when you're on the ground. You can only find it on the street by stumbling into it by accident, and by then somebody's already stolen your wallet.”

“Classic,” Coran said approvingly. “And might I ask if there are wild chases to reclaim the stolen goods?”

The pilot nodded, lining up for a landing at the modest starport at the northern end of the Town. “Regular. There's no Galra peacekeeping patrols on Halidex anymore, so a lot of cultures are reverting to their original shapes here. Not long after Yantilee and his lot started hanging around our System, the Governor and his lot sort of semi-retired. He's still there, he sits in on the royal councils and all that and represents the Empire for all that he's worth, but he doesn't make demands anymore, and his fleet doesn't make trouble. They all stay really quiet 'cause we can't be bullied anymore, and if the Governor calls in the big guns, he's going to have to explain just why he waited so long to call his boss, and that could land his fuzzy bottom in real trouble. Mostly, he handles the rescued troops that the _Quandary_ brings home.”

Pidge narrowed her eyes at the pilot. “That has something to do with the Hoshinthra, doesn't it?”

The pilot cast her a worried glance over his shoulder and set the bus neatly down on a landing pad. “Yup. If the _Quandary_ doesn't rescue those guys, the Hoshinthra grab them. The _Quandary_ can't keep 'em, so they get brought back here. The Governor makes sure that they get back home safe, aside from the ones who prefer to stay. We've actually got a pretty sizable Galra population here now. Since we're so far out from the Center and the Fleet spends its time mostly elsewhere, plus the fact that we don't make noise that attracts Zarkon's attention, it all works out. When all of this is over and you guys have toppled the Empire, the Governor's all set to take up administering his own folks without hardly a bump of transition, and the King's willing to let him... so long as he behaves himself. Galra know a thing or three about survival, too.”

Zaianne brushed her fingers over the little green chevron that she'd prudently pinned to her tunic. “Very true.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We did a thing! WE DID A THING! And it only took 780k+ words to get there! @_@ And I think I've got Pirate Hideout Envy.


	10. Time Well Spent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent all last night stressing out about the room block for Acen opening and got no sleep, then jittered all through actually reserving a hotel room (the room blocks usually fill up within the first few minutes, and this year was no exception), and then used the last of the adrenaline rush to do a final proofread on this chapter. After this, I likely will crash and burn so hard upon my bed that the only thing that would leave a bigger crater would be dropping a Nokia phone.
> 
> Enjoy!

Chapter 10: Time Well Spent

Uzenna Sa'ar was everything that the pilot had promised, and more. Clutching the obligatory souvenir map of the Town (courtesy of the Port's tourism office), Pidge seemed to be determined to see all of it. They did pause briefly at the Thieves' Bank to let Nasty drop off his stuff, but he rejoined the group with the cheerful excuse that someone had to watch their backs while they were gaping around like yokels. Not that the locals didn't do a bit of gaping themselves; while Galra and Unilu weren't at all uncommon, Alteans, Humans, Dragons, and Space Mice were definite rarities in the wider universe. There was also the question of scale; even with the very broad sidewalks, Tilla and Soluk did not leave much space when they were marching abreast, and the passersby were forced to flow around them like a stream around a pair of huge boulders. The dragons were obviously enjoying themselves, at least; heads up, eyes bright, and rumbling cheerfully at the hustle and bustle all around them.

They weren't the only ones. Allura in particular found the Town charming. There was a freshness and a newness about it that pleased her very much, and the wild variety of architectural styles in the buildings themselves neither clashed nor jarred the senses. This gave the impression of a particularly harmonious abstract sculpture, and the air was kept sweet by the rows of tall, slender trees that lined the road. The fernlike leaves were a deep, translucent blue-green, almost like glass, and spread a very light, tangy fragrance into the breeze. These were invar hardwoods, Zaianne told her, highly prized for their beauty and utility, and it was a pity that they weren't fruiting at the moment, because the nuts were very tasty when roasted. Allura agreed that it was a shame, but she saw Hunk break off a leaflet and tuck it into a belt pouch; she remembered Lizenne's gene-lab, and knew that she'd have invar nuts sooner or later.

In the meantime, she was perfectly happy to engage in what the Humans referred to as “window shopping”, which was surprisingly pleasant. Every storefront had a lovely display of their best wares, and those ranged from delicate confections to clothing and housewares, to armor and weaponry, to games and drones, and more. They even found the large and gracious emporium owned by Ketzewan's rogue Bolumnere fashionista, and Allura made a mental note to spend a few hours later on trying on some of those outfits.

She wasn't alone in that, either. “Nice,” Lance said, studying a particularly fine formal jacket. “I have got to talk to this person. Look at the stitching on the lapels! Hey, Shiro, check out that suit over there—lose the extra sleeves and shorten the legs a little, and you'd look great in that. Oooh! And that gown in the back! If she's got one in white and a little snugger in the waist, you'd look dazzling in that, Allura. Oh, oh, oh, Hunk, check out the onesie on the right wall. I've gotta see you in that. Pidge, what about that green thing next to it?”

Pidge squinted through the glass. “It's three sizes too big, Lance.”

He shrugged, not looking away from the sartorial excellence beyond the glass. “It'll shrink in the wash. Nah, I'm kidding. I'll bet this lady has a bunch of sizes handy. What do you think, Keith?”

Keith humphed. “I hate clothes shopping. Dad and I used to have all kinds of trouble finding me pants that fit. Anything long enough in the leg was usually for someone four times my weight, and right when I hit high school, there was that fad for shiny rapper pants and platform-soled boots--”

Lance groaned, his expression one of chagrin. “I remember that. I've been trying to forget that fad for years. It was _awful._ Cousin Maria-Dolores threw a screaming blue fit when Carlos got a pair of both, and then showed them off at the neighborhood dance party. Mom said that it was worth it, just to see the cops remove her for making a public scene.”

Zaianne chuckled, eyeing a very nice deep-blue gown speculatively. “Your family reunions must be interesting.”

Lance grunted, turning his attention to a display of very stylish hats. “We usually have to warn the Fire Marshal first. Just to be polite, you know? I'm sort of looking forward to introducing you to them. Can we go in there? I really want to talk to the owner.”

“After the talks, Lance,” Shiro said, although there were a few items in the shop that he yearned to try on as well, in his secret heart of hearts. “Adam dragged me into a place like this, once, and we lost three hours before we ever noticed it.”

Coran twiddled his mustache and gazed with approval upon an outfit that would not have looked out of place in an assortment of nutcracker dolls. “Not at all uncommon in a quality establishment such as this. 'Tis only to be expected, actually, and I've visited some of the best. It was Allura's mother who set the palace dress code, d'you see, and it was her responsibility to make sure that old Alfor looked presentable. Poor Melenor was always after him to dress well, particularly after he and the others had been out saving the universe again. He'd have much preferred to slop about the place in his pajamas like some people that I could mention--”

Pidge stuck her tongue out at him.

“--But, no, she was generally able to stuff him into something presentable before the latest batch of diplomats came by.” Coran continued, ignoring her. “That didn't stop Gyrgan from showing up at an emergency conference in nothing but a loincloth once, and serve them right for interrupting his steam bath! Not that the Ambassadors minded, once the shock had worn off. He was rather magnificent to look at when he had his shirt off.”

Hunk and Allura glanced at each other, blushed slightly, and looked innocently away.

“Nonetheless, every so often the Queen would sneak away with a few of her best friends and patronize the finer establishments. It was considered not only a great honor to host her, but a great challenge as well; only the very best could possibly be offered up for her choosing, of course—gowns, shoes, jewelry, hosiery, cosmetics and perfumes, and you should have seen the crowds gather to watch the hairdressers fight each other for the honor of combing her lustrous locks! You haven't known excitement until you've seen a true master beautician go at a rival with brush and scissors! And the manicurists! Great Ancients, the manicurists! People ran for cover when they started flailing about with their cuticle knives—eek!”

“This is starting to become a habit,” Zaianne chided, twisting his ear a bit to get his full attention. “If you hadn't noticed while this silly ass was pontificating, Nasty's stolen three purses already, and we've lost the dragons.”

Nasty waved empty hands. “I gave 'em back. Don't look at me like that, it's the local rules, printed right there on the back of the map, and they had to pay me an edutainment fee for the lesson in watching their stuff. The dragons went thataway.”

“Thataway” was down a side boulevard leading toward one of the big parks, and even at that distance, they were able to make out Tilla charging across the grassy lawns with Soluk right behind her. Shiro shook his head with a sigh. “I keep forgetting how much space they need to run. Think that they'll be okay out there?”

Hunk flashed him a sidelong look. “Shiro, they're _dragons._ If that's not good enough for you, they've still got the mice with them. They could probably take on everybody in Town with their eyes closed. They'll be fine. Can we go and check out the Cooking Academy now?”

As they watched, the dragons stampeded back the other way. This time, Tilla had something small and round held carefully in her mouth, and what seemed to be two or three sports teams were chasing her, waving their arms and shouting. She tossed her head gaily, flinging the object across the field to Soluk, who caught it neatly and took off at a gallop.

“Might as well,” Coran observed. “They've even found some nice people to play with. Pop-Pop used to tell stories of when he and a few helpers visited Zampedri, and they started up a sort of informal Glupri-Ball league. The little dragons were forever filching the balls, he said, although the big ones would generally return them at the end of the day. Pop-Pop also said that there was nothing quite as good for clearing the head as a good run through the grasses in hot pursuit of a ball-thief while shouting every dirty word conceived of by intelligent life. Great days.”

“I'll keep an eye on them,” Zaianne volunteered, stepping away from the group. “I feel the need of a good run myself, and those people over there might appreciate having someone who knows how to dance with dragons.”

“I'll bet,” Pidge said, watching Tilla and Soluk starting a “monkey in the middle” game with the angry ball players as the monkeys. “Now, let's go and visit Ronok. He's told me a lot about his school, and I want to see it for myself.”

From the street, at least, the Cooking Academy wasn't all that unusual-looking; it had a modest facade of cream-colored stone and a generous-looking main doorway that radiated a sort of quiet welcome, which was echoed by the Halidexan lady at the desk in the lobby. Pidge trotted over instantly and asked, “Is Ronok available? I'm Varda.”

The receptionist had obviously been warned about her, and gestured an affirmative. “You're in luck, Miss, he's just finished a class. He and Tamzet will be on the third floor in Baking Lab #6, and he left a note with me to send you and any companions up immediately. Just follow the signs.”

Unusually for any academic building, there were not only clear, legible signs, but accurate floor maps at each landing, and it wasn't long before they came to the appropriate room. Hunk's eyes gleamed avariciously at the wide variety of ovens, mixers, pots, pans, and a myriad of other tools designed for turning raw materials into whole banquets. The others saw mostly the blackened oven and a series of huge, pinkish-black smears on the floor where something had objected violently to being baked. Ronok was treating these marks with something that smelled a little like cider vinegar while Tamzet chipped chunks of charred goo out of the oven itself. Unsurprisingly, there was a smoky haze in the air and a smell of something that might once have been savory, and all of the windows were wide open.

As they stepped through the doors, Tamzet backed out of the oven, tossed a double-handful of charcoal into a nearby trash bin and said, “That's the worst of it, Uncle. I don't think that it did any real damage, but I'll have Grassen check the stove over anyway. That was _creepy._ Does it always do that?”

Ronok humphed irritably and scrubbed at the wet, dirty floor with a push broom. “If you add too much painiri, not enough parched guellot, and then don't keep a proper eye on it, then yes. We're lucky—if he'd skimped any more on the dosha, it would have bitten his head off. The Werians don't call it 'Seven-Devils Bread' for nothing. Idiot. If the recipe says eleven _sekphars_ of tolumn, then that's what you measure out, and to the Void with the cost of the spices. Perhaps I should make him eat a tureen of ghrembak stew with no yurosk powder in it to teach him.”

Tamzet grimaced in distaste. “That'd teach _me.”_

“And that's why you're the official Teaching Assistant, and he's not,” Ronok growled. “You actually do learn. Varda, I see you and the others over there. Come here and give your uncle a hug.”

Pidge giggled and scampered over to do just that. “Hi, Uncle Ronok; hi, Tamzet, we're back! What's Seven-Devils bread? I don't think that you ever made it on the _Quandary.”_

The old man snorted a laugh and eased her away from the besmirched areas of the floor so that she could give Tamzet a hug, too. “I did, once, out of curiosity. The Werians have a long history of mixing demonology and cookery, and while their cuisine is good, it can be a bit exciting if you get it wrong. That one time aboard the _Quandary,_ I got everything right except for the oven I cooked it in. How did you think that toaster oven wound up being possessed? As it is, I'll have to call Somlesc in to check this thing, and see if there's anyone he knows lurking in it. How have all of you been, and what brings you by here?”

Shiro smiled wryly. “The conference over at the Palace got held up. Some of the staff don't like the idea of having a gang of space pirates over for dinner.”

Tamzet rolled his eyes. “It's the Majordomo again, isn't it? He gets all antsy when we deliver the Queen's tea-cakes, and acts like we'll get loose fur all over the furnishings.”

“Yeah,” Hunk said, rolling his own eyes in sympathy. “There's always that one guy, right? Also, we're here to make a delivery, too. Did you want this back, Ronok?”

Hunk had caught the Unilu by the back of the shirt just as he was reaching for a set of expensive-looking kitchen knives, and the Unilu yelped in protest as Hunk pulled him away. Ronok eyed Nasty with a pale, disapproving gaze, and sneered. “Not especially. Drop it in the compost bin on your way out. The assassin bushes in the garden are getting ready to bloom, and could use a little extra nefarious in their fertilizer.”

“Hey,” Nasty protested, and then looked very interested. “Assassin bushes? Seriously? Where did you find those? Those are really rare even back home!”

Ronok smirked. “Pirates, Nasty. They get everywhere and steal anything, and any unusual edibles come straight to me. Believe it or not, those bushes were cloned from the contents a two-hundred-year-old sack of mixed nuts, discovered in a derelict ore smuggler by one of Tepechwa's scavengers. The xenobotanists were happy to study that sack for me, since there were samples of seven other types of nuts and seeds, most of which were extinct.”

Tamzet grinned. “Ronok's really popular with the xenoscience community right now. He keeps bringing them presents. Want to see the Academy gardens? They're full of weird, rare things, and you can tell us adventure stories while we all look at the pretty flowers.”

“Actually, I'd like a tour of the whole place,” Hunk said before anyone else could speak. “You've got a candy-sculpting lab, right? I've always wanted to have a look at one, but the opportunity never came up.”

“I do, but it's not me who teaches that class,” Ronok said, smiling benevolently at his kindred spirit. “While I did manage to perfect a few of the recipes for the candies themselves, I was never more than passable at the actual sculpting. Thezza handles that end of the art for me. Let's see if she's willing to show off a little, eh? Come on, it's right next to the burn treatment office. Now, what nonsense have you been up to since we last met?”

“Shan't,” the Majordomo's voice came petulantly through the polished panels of the locked door.

The Prince sighed and turned to his guests. “I'm really sorry about this.”

Lizenne waved a generous hand. “It's quite all right. My great-aunt had one just like him, and we used to joke about how his nose might get caught in the chandelier if he lifted it any higher.”

Modhri smiled nostalgically. “That actually happened once. He used to bully and harass the servant staff—my family, mostly—whenever he could, and one day, my brother took a bit of extra-strong, nearly invisible fishing line and attached an industrial-strength adhesive strip to one end. The other was tied around the focal prism of that ridiculously extravagant light fixture in the main hall, and at precisely the right height just where the man always walked. There was a great deal of flailing and squawking that day, and several crystals were knocked loose before they could untangle him. They had to shave his nose to get the strip off, too, and the fur took a month to grow back.”

The Prince giggled, but shook his head. “That's not an option right now. The household staff can't really coordinate properly without him, and Dad wants to make a good impression on the Fleet Captains, especially the new ones.”

“Let me try,” Lizenne said thoughtfully. “My mother taught me a trick or two, and the practice will stand me in good stead if the future treats us well.”

The Prince stepped away from the doors. “Go ahead.”

“Thank you, your Highness,” Lizenne said politely, and then gave the doors a look that dulled the polish. Taking a deep and measured breath, she lilted out the Majordomo's personal name in a tone that could not be ignored. “Bochar.”

There was a faint whimper from the other side. “Yes, Madame?”

“The correct term for addressing a Galra woman is 'my Lady',” she said in a voice that had hauteur dripping from every syllable. “'Madame' is the mode of address for a mature, married woman who also has adult or near-adult children, and furthermore is spoken only by close friends and relatives. You are neither. You have a duty to know such things, sirrah, and you are remiss in that and in many other duties.”

They could practically _hear_ Bochar's spine wilting. “My Lady, I beg your pardon, but I protest! Never before has this Palace played host to a Galra woman, and if you are referring to that filthy ragtag of unhung savages that the King is so insistent about cluttering up the House with--”

“They are nothing of the sort!” Lizenne snarled in a voice that had the Prince huddling behind Modhri. “Sir, I repeat, you are remiss, and nigh-unforgivably so. A proper Majordomo should always be well-acquainted with not only the customs of his own people, but of those who are likely to visit. Had you swallowed your pride and done your homework, you would have realized your folly instantly. Have you any idea of the sheer number of notables soon to grace this house with their presence?”

“Well, I--” the Majordomo sputtered, but got no further.

“Admiral Yantilee is an Admiral in truth,” Lizenne said coldly, “having inherited the rank in a battlefield promotion. Indeed, he currently ranks as the High Commander of the entire Elikonian space navy, having been the one surviving officer of the original armada. Captain Dablinnit is in actuality a Grand Duke, being the last scion of the old Royal Line. Captain Ketzewan held the noble rank of Grand Verdurean before he was forced to turn pirate, and Voan Lenna was also considered a gentleman of high standing. Rough though Captain Tchak's manners might be, he holds the exalted position of one of his people's last Wonderworkers, and Captain Zorjesca stands very high in her Swarm. A great many of the Ghost Fleet captains are indeed nobility in exile; you know as well as I do that an exiled lord is a lord still, and deserves the respect of those who serve him. I know this well, for I too may demand that same respect. I, yes, even I, the Rogue Witch, was once the valued daughter of the very rich and powerful High House Ghurap'Han, and one that was considered worthy of marrying into the Imperial Lineage.”

“Please, my Lady, I--” the Majordomo begged, but Lizenne wasn't done yet.

“Even those who possess no noble blood are noble of spirit, for they have chosen to fight where others cower and submit,” the scorn in her voice bid fair to strip the paint from a nearby portrait. “When the Emperor crushed the proud Halidexan forces, where were you, Bochar? Were you there with your King, working to save your people from the worst of the conqueror's greed? Did you support in any way the resistance groups, did you aid and comfort those that the invaders had displaced or impoverished? Where were you, when the grieving families of those who were killed in that conquest mourned their dead? Were you out there, helping those who desperately needed that help, or were you tucked up here in your safe little room full of napkins and tablecloths, shivering in terror and bemoaning your sad fate?”

“Lady, _please...”_ whimpered the Majordomo, who sounded near tears.

“The least of those pirates is a better man than you, for they have stood up and taken action where you have not,” Lizenne hissed through bared teeth. “They have aided your entire world in a hundred ways, even going so far as to rescue your King and his family because it was _right,_ not out of any hope of reward. Single-handedly and at the risk of her own life, one single pirate girl staved off a usurpation that would have ruined your civilization for all time by freeing them and sending them home. You have less than no excuse to refuse them hospitality.”

“Lady...”

Lizenne drew herself up to her full and terrible height, and spake thus in a tone of voice like the fall of an executioner's axe: “Coward. _For shame.”_

He broke down in tears at that point, and Lizenne let him weep in frigid silence for a few minutes before speaking again, her voice slightly gentler this time. “All is not lost, Bochar. The Admiral is patient and the King is an understanding sort. You may redeem yourself in their eyes if you act now. Get out of there and get to work. Treat these heroes as they deserve; make them comfortable and welcome, for that is your purpose as the First Servant of the House. In supporting them, you support their cause, and their cause is just. Come forth! Your responsibilities await!”

The doors slammed open and the Majordomo scrambled out, bowing jerkily and babbling garbled and tear-soaked reassurances as he hurried away to see to his duties. Modhri and the young Prince watched him go, and turned to stare at Lizenne with admiration in their eyes.

The Prince swallowed hard. “Have you ever thought about going into motivational speaking?”

Lizenne laughed, and suddenly her aura of ultimate authority was gone. “No, dear, that's just how a Matriarch should act when someone is shirking their duties. Shall we tell your royal father that the problem has been solved?”

The Prince smiled only a little nervously and dipped a little bow. “Yes, my Lady.”

She gave him a fond smile and gracefully rested her hand on Modhri's offered elbow, allowing the Prince to lead the way back up to the conference hall. The young Halidexan royal watched that artful motion with curious eyes, but took the position that his rank entitled him to, at the head of their little procession. “You're so different from the rest of them,” he commented quietly. “The Governor and his men used to treat us like underlings.”

Modhri nodded. “It's a status thing, your Highness. Lizenne and I are throwbacks to an earlier era, from before Zarkon took the Throne. Galra are predators and pack-hunters, and we do respect authority; unfortunately, our people have been taught for many thousands of years that the least of our kind has more authority than the greatest of anyone else. Thus far, no one race has had the might to teach us any different.”

“A few have come close, but they were alone,” Lizenne added solemnly. “It has taken far too long, but the many are now beginning to come together into a greater whole; one that, we hope, will not leave too much chaos in its wake.”

“You're not doing too badly so far,” the Prince said. “Voltron's gained us more ground than we could have hoped, and the Fleet's been taking every opening that the Paladins have given them, and that's a lot. You've even called the Hoshinthra out of hiding, and when they strike, the Empire's really going to feel it.”

Modhri gazed at him with interest. “Have they spoken with your parents? We have no idea of what they're doing.”

The young Prince ran his fingers through his silky, greenish crest uncertainly. “Sort of. Shussshorim's their spokeswoman right now, and she likes being cryptic at people. She's said that her descendants have been moving into position, but won't tell even Mother much beyond that. She did say that it would likely be enough to open a road for someone... uh, I forget the name. Sai-something.”

Lizenne frowned. “Tzairona?”

“That's it!” The Prince smiled gratefully at her. “Who is that? Shussshorim thinks that it's important for that person to go home.”

Lizenne and Modhri shared a long look. “The Warleader is not wrong,” Modhri said gravely, “and I thank you for telling us this. Tzairona was my ultimate grandmother and the Founder of my Lineage, and she died under very peculiar circumstances. We have found her body, and the Fleet hosts her spirit; taking her home will mean freedom for more than five hundred very skilled people, and the crippling of a major industrial House.”

“Well done, young man,” Lizenne murmured. “Has she said when her kin will strike?”

“No,” the Prince said, “and Dad did ask. All he got was 'when the time is right'.”

Modhri hummed under his breath as they stepped into the lift that would take them up to the palace's main function rooms. “She is a far greater predator than many of my own people, and great predators strike hardest when the prey is confused. That way, the prey cannot think clearly, and is prone to panic and rash action. They are waiting for the rest of us to draw the Imperial Navy's attention in a way that cannot be ignored. The loss of those two trade hubs might do it, although the Empire holds many such hubs. What would upset the Military enough to distract them from everything else?”

The Prince shrugged. “Well, when we were kidnapped by Plosser, it caused a huge mess back here. We're still cleaning up parts of it. Maybe Voltron will strike directly at the Emperor again, or at the Crown Prince, or the sorceress?”

Lizenne smiled grimly. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. Perhaps the Warleaders will strike regardless of what we do. I cannot even guess at their plans.”

The Prince cocked his head at an interested angle. “Now I know that you're different from the rest. None of the other Galra we've known have ever admitted that they couldn't predict what someone would do.”

“Arrogance, dear,” Lizenne sighed. “We Galra are naturally prideful, but Zarkon takes it to extremes, and he encourages that attitude in his officers. Avoid it in yourself, if you can; a little pride in oneself is necessary, but overweening arrogance does nobody any good at all.”

By the time that they reached the conference hall, the entire level was already humming with frantic activity as the designated rooms were cleaned and made ready for the guests. King Trosimon, his wife, and the Crown Prince stood conversing quietly in one corner with Yantilee and Kolivan while the servants worked busily around them, and the smile that the King gave them when they approached was perhaps a little ironic.

“I see that the party's back on,” he said. “Who do I need to reward for this?”

The young Prince and Modhri pointed at Lizenne, who gestured a negative. “Don't bother, your Majesty, he just needed a talking-to. Nothing earth-shaking at all. I take it that this meeting is of grave importance?”

“Somewhat.” The King sighed and glanced over at Yantilee, who was deep in discussion with the Queen. “Taking Bericonde and Jeproba rattled a lot of very important people. The fact that you didn't disrupt the trade lines when you did so rattled them even more. My Nobles all think that they're the pinnacle of creation, you know, but it's the trade clans that do all of the real work and bring in all of the real revenue. That's a lot more important than most heroes think.”

“We're aware,” Modhri replied, “and we've taken care not to break things as we've gone along. I take it that the Fleet's next target is worrying those very important people?”

Trosimon grimaced. “Even the least little hint of trouble upsets those very important people. When they get upset, whole interplanetary governments get upset. When those get upset, they start complaining—loudly—to whomever they think may be in charge, or at least the person who has some sort of influence with the people causing the trouble. Right now, that's me. At least my Receptionist is enjoying this. Litta's been blocking and misdirecting calls ever since Bericonde. I'll have her page the Paladins when the preparations are a little further along. I feel that I must warn you, though... the Governor will be attending as well.”

Lizenne narrowed her eyes, and just for a second, the King saw the warrior woman lurking behind the civilized veneer. She nodded slowly. “I see. I take it that he's been acting sensibly since the last time we were here?”

“He has, actually,” Trosimon replied. “Having the Fleet show up on his doorstep that first time knocked the wind out of his sails, and after he'd talked to a few of the officers that the Fleet had rescued, he came around very quickly. A few of his underlings are still unhappy about it, but they have no choice but to go along with him.”

“We'll be polite,” Modhri reassured him, “as will the others.”

“Will they?” the young Prince asked.

Modhri smiled gently. “Allura will insist.”

Allura was currently nibbling on her candy and watching Hunk beam with happiness while brightly-colored pollinators fluttered prettily around him. He'd already sampled half of the garden herbs, sniffed every flower that he could reach, and had persuaded the gardeners to let him have seeds for growing his favorites. The Hydroponics deck of the Castle was going to become rather more active very soon. Not that Allura was going to complain; Pidge had just introduced her to morlaberries, and she definitely was in favor of having those on a regular basis.

For the moment, she was perfectly willing to concentrate on the treat already in hand. They had all spent a very enjoyable varga or two learning about edible art with Ronok's colleague, building improbable candies-on-a-stick that Lance had called “Hollywood lollipops”. She didn't see what the branches of a large Earthian shrub had to do with it, but that didn't really matter. Thezza had simply pulled out a vast selection of flavor essences and had let them all pick out their favorites before brewing up large pots of heavy syrups. They had learned how to add color and flavor, how to handle the hot confectionery without getting serious burns, and how to sculpt it into fanciful shapes that resembled art glass more than anything else. Even Nasty had participated, and she had found herself envying him for the extra pair of hands. As for artistic skill... well, it was just as well that none of their pieces were display-quality. It would have been a terrible shame if their creations had been too pretty to eat. Indeed, one of their number currently had competition for her treat; Pidge was holding her lollipop at arm's length and looking very nervous because a rather large insect had decided to take a taste.

It was quite pretty, actually, being banded in turquoise and black, with large, glittering compound eyes, glassy wings, and a long and heavy-looking abdomen. There must have been something like it back on Earth that was fairly fearsome, because the fearless young lady who had once kicked a pirate captain's head off was whimpering pitifully for help.

“Oh, hush girl, you'll frighten it,” Ronok said, gently disengaging the finger-long insect from her candy and stroking its gleaming carapace lovingly. “This is a Thantusian sacred riza, and they're worth their weight in gems these days. The best honey in the known universe comes from their hives, and the wax they produce to contain it is considered essential for making offerings to seven different pantheons, two Lineages of holy monarchs, and a College of very highly-regarded Scholars. Every part and portion of this little darling is under the protection of a dozen different deities, and our very traditional beekeeper will invoke them all if you start flailing around like an idiot. Even getting stung by one of these is considered a blessing.”

They stared at the riza, which cleaned its antennae and fanned its gleaming wings at them with the haughty air of a tiny emperor. The stinger, visible at the tip of the abdomen, was over an inch long and as thick as a darning needle.

“Seriously?” Lance said, backing away.

“Oh, yes,” Ronok said, transferring the riza to a large golden flower hanging nearby. “To you or me, the sting would just hurt like hell. To the Thantusians, it's a powerful euphoric hallucinogen. A good part of the Academy's funding comes from this garden, and from that hive.”

“Yes, I seem to remember something of that,” Coran mused, watching the riza sip decorously at the flower's nectar. “Alfor and the team did visit Thantu a couple of times, once to get rid of a corrupt priest-king, and again for a festival. Very keen on those insects, they were, and said that they could smell the difference between virtue and vice, and would take action if they smelled something that they didn't like. They never bothered us more than the occasional sip from our drinks.”

“Not even Zarkon?” Nasty asked.

Coran shrugged. “It was only the fourth or fifth decaphebe after they'd qualified for the Lions, and he wasn't evil yet. What other sorts of rarities have you collected, Ronok?”

“This and that,” Ronok replied, waving a hand at a fenced-off area. “Umpuktu firethorn, the fruits of which produce an oil so hot that it cooks food all by itself. Thaswee spice, pherp root, and t'uek herbs, all very rare aromatics. That greenhouse there has a few young thelwisk bushes growing in it, and that one has a branchful of well-of-heaven epiphytes, and we've lately been able to sprout eight healthy young quinma trees.”

“Quinma trees?” Allura said with a sudden smile. _“Real_ quinma trees? Those are an Altean spice-tree! How did you get those?”

Ronok gave her an interested look. “The Halidexans have had them for ages, mostly grown in the Palace's private gardens. Legend has it that they got them from an ancient race of spacefarers who visited them once to make repairs to a damaged ship, and those people had gotten them from the Niricora, who had gotten them from the Oulvarans, who had received them as a tribute-gift from the Ipts, who had stolen a few seed-pods from the storerooms of a ruined spacecraft they found drifting near the wreckage of an equally mysterious space station. Gone though it might be, young lady, your world has left a legacy that is known and treasured even today. I have many such prized remnants here, and hope to gain more. Just before you came here, I got a page from my contact at the main Xenobotany labs—your Aunt Lizenne has given them a few gifts of her own that will be of great use in the future.”

“Is that where she went?” Shiro asked. “I haven't seen her or Modhri today.”

Ronok nodded. “They have much business with the Fleet Captains, our Halidexan hosts, and the Blade of Marmora, or so Helenva tells me. They have been many places, and have much information to share, and a great variety of treasures that they distribute where it will do the most good. You are very lucky to have her as Matriarch, and I am proud to have become a part of your family. As you can see, it has brought me riches.”

Hunk looked longingly at the fence, which was large, sturdy, and had spikes along the top. “Can we see them?”

Ronok smiled and shook his head. “Not without incurring the wrath of the specialist gardeners. Some of those rare plants are very delicate and sensitive, and don't like strangers. There is one, however, that they've deemed obnoxious enough to allow to go slumming out here. Come along, I'll show you.”

He led them to a large planter near the back of the garden, which contained a large, squat, gnarly-looking vine with glossy yellow-green leaves the size and shape of dinner plates. Huge white trumpet-shaped flowers that glittered subtly bloomed in snowy profusion, and what looked to be big golden clusters of fruit that resembled some of the odder squash varieties that turned up around Halloween lay temptingly atop the substrate. They were each as large as a soccer ball, sort of oval-shaped, with a ring of protruding knobs around the middle. Ronok looked upon these with a mixture of pride and exasperation and said, “Yolindrian Saint's gourds. Very rare, very difficult to cultivate, and highly prized for their flavor. Used to be grown only in the Temples of the Western Mesa on Yolind, to test the faith of the novice monks.”

“Really?” Keith asked. “How'd they do that?”

Ronok gestured at a nearby gardener, who handed him a planting stake. Ronok smiled grimly and pointed it at one gourd. “Watch.”

So saying, he tapped the gourd lightly and snatched the stake away, but not quite quickly enough. The gourd abruptly rose up upon its ropy stem, split open into fanged thirds, and snapped four inches of wood off of the end of the stake, which it spat spitefully out at Nasty before settling back down again.

“Wow,” Hunk said. “Look but don't touch. How do you harvest those, anyway?”

“Tasers, usually. Not many people are enlightened enough to pick them without help.”

“Tasers? Tasers, indeed!” Coran scoffed, moving closer to one particularly large gourd. “That'll ruin the texture every time. You don't even need to be enlightened, although a bit of inebriation does help now and then. Here, all you need to do is this--” he tugged on two of the knobs, “--and this--” two more knobs were pulled, “--and boop!” he tapped the tip of the gourd with one finger, _“--Voila!”_

The gourd split open into neat thirds, exposing plump pink sections of fruit, which he pulled out and munched with relish. “Lovely. Just as I remembered. Crisp, sweet, and refreshing. Very good in iced desserts and certain expensive drinks. Here, try some.”

Ronok smiled and tasted one. “Nice. I'll remember that technique.”

There was a gabble and a squawk from the gardener, who had watched Coran's trick with superstitious horror. “Nice? _Nice?_ You leucistic old heretic, _no one_ can do that! That's how you can tell if the monk is actually a living Saint, if he can get at the fruit without losing a hand! That's a Divine Mystery, is what this... this... _alien_ just did, an actual holy secret passed down from the Ancient Ones--”

“It was a party trick,” Coran replied primly. “'Get It And Not Bit', we used to call it, and old Alfor could do it blind drunk. Besides, young man, I _am_ an Ancient One, technically at least, having been born a good ten thousand and never-you-mind-how-many years ago, so I'm entitled. Want another demonstration?”

The gardener let out a scream of righteous indignation and collapsed backwards into a patch of gnobweed.

Ronok snorted in amusement. “He'll want to ordain you when he wakes up, you know. Can't have an unsainted person wandering around with that sort of knowledge.”

“Wouldn't be the first time,” Coran said indifferently, passing sections of fruit around to the others. “I happen to be an honorary Knight, Warleader, Huntsman-in-Chief, Lord of the Mezzanine, Lady of the Long Whiskers, Exalted Nurk, High Gubarr, Overseer of the Back Pantry, Greater Luftwig, Middling Cuxan, He-Who-Makes-Spooky-Noises-At-Dawn, and Semi-Hereditary Chaser of the Yeeps. I have accepted similar honors from the religious establishments of seventy-three planets, some of which may still exist. This'll be my third sainthood, to tell the truth, and at least it was for doing something useful. My last one was for sitting under a desert sun for thirty days and nights without food or water, contemplating the Infinite with my shirt off.”

“I dunno, that sounds like a saintly sort of thing to me,” Lance said dubiously. “A lot of ours used to do that.”

Coran tugged on his mustache. “That's true enough, and a lot of other religious types do that as well. It's just more of a trial when the desert's a hot one, which that one wasn't, and when the days lasted more than six or seven doboshes. Terribly close to its sun, that planet was, for all that the sun was barely more than a brown dwarf, and the planet spun far faster on its axis than you'd think sensible. Just trying to figure out the math behind what made the place possible, much less habitable, kept me busy the whole time.”

Pidge frowned and was about to offer an opinion, but Allura's wrist-comm beeped. Surprised, the Princess asked, “Yes?”

An eerily familiar voice, sharp and slightly nasal, answered with, _“Paladins of Voltron, you are hereby commanded by King Trosimon to--”_

Ronok reached over and gently grasped Allura's wrist, lifting it up high enough for him to speak into the comm. “Cool it, Litta. I take it that someone managed to light a fire under Bochar?”

There was a moment of offended silence. _“Yes. The talks will begin in half a luwith, so they'd better get over here.”_

“I'll send them along. Shall Tamzet and I come with them, say, carrying a basket of vyllet merangues for the long-suffering household staff?” Ronok said coaxingly.

There was another brief silence, followed by a faint gulp, as though someone's mouth was watering and they needed a moment. _“That would be... very much appreciated.”_

“It is the done thing for guests to bring a small gift for the hosts,” Ronok said solemnly. “I'll make sure to add a few pikpik tarts. We'll all be there shortly.”

“Ronok, you are an artist,” Hunk said admiringly.

Ronok gave them a sly smile and released Allura's hand. “It's very important to be on good terms with the household staff of any large establishment, planetside or aboard ship. It's not even bribery; it's a simple courtesy from one professional to another, and it opens more doors than an Imperial Decree. Tamzet, the basket's in the ready box, get a sealed hovercrate to carry it in or you'll never get it to the palace intact. The tarts are already in the basket, so you won't have to risk the wrath of the janitors.”

The young Galra grinned and trotted back toward the doors. Shiro gave the old man a puzzled look. “You had it all made up already?”

Ronok drew himself up proudly. “I've been catering for large gatherings for most of my life, and I know how much work goes into a formal conference. It's always a ton of extra work on top of an already full schedule, and those doing the work always feel that they deserve a treat. Therefore, having that treat ready to go saves time... and makes a great many friends. I want Tamzet to have many friends up at the Palace. He might end up working there one day, and I want him to fit in easily.”

“That's really important,” Hunk said knowledgeably. “Some kitchens really don't like it when a new cook is hired on out of the blue. They don't know him, they don't know how he works or what he wants from them, and both sides can get pretty nasty about it. A really good cooking team is more like a family than anything else.”

Keith snapped his fingers. “Speaking of family, Mom's still out with the mice and the dragons. Think we should give her a call?”

“Good idea,” Allura said, and contacted Zaianne. “Zaianne, are you there?”

There was a thud, a rustle, distant cheers, and a loud _GRONK_ from her communicator. It sounded like Soluk. They heard Zaianne laugh, and her slightly breathless voice answered a moment later. _“Yes, I am. Hold on a moment, I need to call a time out.”_ There was another rustle, and they heard her shout, _“Take a breather, you lot, this may be important!”_

“What are you doing over there?” Allura asked.

“ _Inventing a new sport.”_ Zaianne chuckled wickedly. _“They're already calling it 'dragonball'.”_

The Humans groaned, confusing Allura a little. Before she could ask what that was all about, Keith asked, “How many balls are you using?”

Lance followed that up instantly with, “Is there a lot of yelling involved, and martial arts?”

“I haven't seen any explosions yet,” Shiro added hopefully. “There won't be any explosions, will there?”

“If we run into any big cranky guys with glowing hair, I quit,” Hunk grumped.

Pidge growled. “We're already up to our ears in cranky purple people. No big noisy space monkeys!”

Zaianne laughed again. _“No, nothing like that. Just one ball, two goals, two dragons, four mice, and a lot of overexcited amateur athletes. We've made a mess of the lawns, I'm afraid. None of the official ball courts were big enough for the dragons, so we had to improvise. I think that the groundskeepers are going to be upset with us.”_

Allura giggled. “Not all grasses are as resilient as Zampedri's. We've just been summoned back to the Palace, Zaianne. The meeting will begin very soon.”

“ _Ah. Thank you for the warning, we'll head over there directly.”_ Her voice grew distant again, and they heard her shouting at the crowd: _“Tilla, give the nice lady her ball back. Platt, there is no way that you can eat that many snacks, get out of that pushcart. The game is over, people, we have real-life matters to address at the moment. Yes, I know, we'll try to come back for another game later. Don't pout, it makes you look like a wet rug. Well, I can't ignore a royal invitation, now can I? Spend the time writing up the rules of the game and working on some team tactics. Add another goal and make it a triple-team sport, the dragons don't care which one they run through anyway. Your current strategy looks like a pre-riot mob action at the moment, and while that might be fun, someone could get hurt. Got all that? Good. I'll expect a proper game plan by tomorrow morning.”_

Hunk smiled broadly and nudged Keith with one elbow. “I really, really like your mom, Keith.”

“So do I, Hunk,” Keith said, smiling fondly in the general direction of the sports fields, and then turned his attention back to Nasty, who had watched Coran's technique and had opened up another Saint's gourd. “Are you coming with us, Nasty?”

The Unilu wiped juice off of his chin and gestured a negative. “Nope. Those planning sessions are way above my pay grade, and I'll need to check out the Unilu Quarter, and hit the Town Hall for some info. I'll still be crewing on the _Quandary_ for now—you weirdos have gotten me addicted to adventures—but sooner or later, I'll want to settle down here.”

“So, this is goodbye, then,” Lance said.

“Yup,” Nasty sighed. “My contract's up, I've found all the silverware, and you've all learned enough to not get immediately captured or killed. Even the guy who came in late. It's been a lot more fun than I thought it would be.”

Shiro smiled. “You've been a big help, Nasty, and we're all going to miss you.”

Hunk sniffled. “It was great, man. We learned, like, a ton of really useful stuff. Will you want me to send the Unilu foods in the pantry over to the _Quandary_ for you?”

Nasty shook his head. “Keep it. I might just get drunk and let Varda sucker me into another contract, or you'll get another of my kind in, or I'll infiltrate the Castle now and again and steal some of it, just to keep in practice. Just remember to kick the temmin okk now and again.”

“We'll do that,” Coran assured him. “Very kickable stuff, temmin okk.”

“You'll always have a place aboard the Castle,” Allura said, “whenever you need us, we'll welcome you.”

Pidge lunged forward and wrapped her arms around her friend's neck. “Thanks for everything, Nasty. _Everything._ Right back to when we first met. Write me letters, okay? I'll want to know what's really going on with Osric. He's still my ship.”

Nasty wrapped his arms around her shoulders for a quick hug, his eyes suspiciously damp. “I can do that. Now get your hand out of my belt pouch.”

She backed away with a grin, holding up the Justice card from his Dix-Par deck, without which the greatest hand of the game could not be constructed. “Just keeping in practice.”

Nasty humphed and reached for the card, but something made him look up. Shiro was also staring at the card, but with that thousand-mile look of distant concentration that he got whenever he was having a Vision. His dark eyes were even darker than usual, and flecked very subtly with gold. There was a faint tension on the air that made Nasty's sensitive nerves prickle, a sense that things could go either of two ways—one into disaster and the other into triumph. Nasty could almost see the potentiality glittering in the air, waiting to crystallize into a future reality. Right there at the very cusp of destiny, Nasty took a deep breath and made a choice.

“Keep it,” he said. “I'll hold onto the rest of the deck, and the next time we meet up, you can put it back the same way you got it.”

“Like a luck charm,” she said, and tucked the card into a pocket. “I can do that. Thanks, Nasty. Here comes Tamzet—we'll see you later.”

He nodded, and glanced up at Shiro again. The tall Human was still watching events that wouldn't happen for a while, but now he was smiling. Shiro blinked, shook himself slightly, and bit a chunk of candy off of his lollipop. He did spare a moment to meet Nasty's eyes, and to give him a nod and a wink before devouring the rest of his candy. Much relieved, Nasty nodded back; whatever that card had meant to the forces of Fate, he'd played it well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like it? Hate it? Want to yell at us for making fun of an old anime? Drop a comment! And if you hear loud explosions, don't worry. That's just the sound of our hearts bursting at each confirmation that people still read our insane ravings. ^_^ Love ya all!


	11. That Way Lies Madness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is a disgusting time of the night/morning, I have pulled yet another all-nighter, and if I don't post this now, it won't get posted today at all. @_@

Chapter 11: That Way Lies Madness

Zarkon sat in his Imperial throne, trying to listen to the report that one of his Generals was giving him and not having much luck. There was nothing wrong with his eyes or his ears; it was his memory that was the problem. Not its absence—he'd known all of his life that men above a certain age might become forgetful, and indeed he'd welcomed that. He was far older than any of his people had ever been, and the sheer weight of memory could become backbreaking at times. Whole eras had slipped away from his conscious recollection if they had nothing of worth to remember them by, or if they were too painful to contemplate even centuries later. Or if they were simply too trivial to bother with, like the dour, middle-aged man trying to inform him of some problem or other that was happening in some odd corner of his Empire. Or perhaps it wasn't a middle-aged man giving the report. It might be a younger man, or an older man, or a woman of similarly varying ages; thousands of officers had delivered thousands such reports over thousands of years, and here and now, they were blending unsettlingly together right in front of him. Voices belonging to people long dead were echoing around the living man's, and he could almost hear Blaytz shouting at one or more of them to stop blathering and get to the point...

He caught his breath in a faint hiss and glanced to one side at the faint movement out of the corner of his eye. There was no one there, of course. Haggar was overseeing the last stages of construction on the new Robeast. He _knew_ that. He knew that very well, but she was there beside him so many other times...

He had too many memories, and they were starting to clamor for attention at odd moments, waking and sleeping. Ever since that miserable wretch who had stolen his Lion had invaded his mind, his long-dormant past had bestirred itself. He had expected it to die down again, to slip back into quiescence like stirred-up sediment sifting back to its place on a riverbed, but it had not. If anything, it had gotten worse. Something about the man—something about the _Lion..._ no. No. It was more than that. He shifted slightly upon his throne, and two thin, bright wires of pain twinged in his shoulder and thigh. They always did that when the voices of the dead or the shadow memories acted up. They had done something to him, the Champion and Alfor's daughter. They had done something that Haggar couldn't see. Zarkon considered having her look again, and then discarded the notion. He would deal with it himself. It did not do to reveal a weakness to anyone, not even one's closest companions. Perhaps another dose of Quintessence would do the trick.

_That's not going to work, Zarkon,_ a voice heard by no one in ten thousand years scolded him.  _Sometimes strength isn't the answer. If you keep piling on more force, it's just going to break._

Trigel had never hesitated to speak her mind.

_Great Zog, man,_ another voice out of the dim past said,  _haven't you ever learned to ask nicely? It's not hard. Come on, let's hear you say it. Repeat after me._ “Please” _, and_ “thank you” _._

What had Gyrgan been talking about? Princes did not ask, they commanded, and those they commanded had better obey...

_If only it were that simple, my friend,_ another once-familiar voice sighed sympathetically out of the dust of ages.  _We all entertain that little fantasy now and again, trust me. You'll only have one planet to run if your father ever gets around to confirming you as his Heir, but my own father dumped hundreds of them on me. The trouble with ruling a large interstellar kingdom is that all of their unsolvable problems are suddenly your unsolvable problems, only you have to solve them or the problems just get larger. I suppose that I could become a tyrant and rule with an iron fist—I would dearly love to have that Upsuskan Grand Prethet stripped naked and tied to a lamp-post outside of a sports bar, for example—but that just creates more problems. You should hear Melenor complain about the backlash whenever we do something precipitous._

Alfor. Zarkon ground his teeth, his temper rising. Alfor had always counseled patience. Always patience, understanding, compliance, and compromise, even when chopping the heads off of those sneering, arrogant politicians would have served the purpose ever so much better...

_Zarkon, you can't have everything that you want,_ Blaytz had snapped at him once, after a particularly long and trying adventure.  _I know that they're a pain in the ass, but you can't just fire-polish the whole planet. They're needed, alive and whole, and we're some of the people who need them!_

Blaytz was an idiot. A truly self-sufficient person did not _need_ anyone, particularly when they would not learn and would not see sense, and the best service that such a damned stupid people could render unto their neighbors was to go and die in a fire. He had had his own way in the end, and so many obdurate peoples had come to an end at his will...

_That really isn't a good idea, Zarkon,_ a woman whom he hadn't thought about since his homeworld had been lost told him sternly.  _I don't care what that Altean alchemist of yours says, it's forbidden, and by far greater authorities than you—or her, for that matter! Yes, it is possible to extend your life all but indefinitely that way, to say nothing of powering just about any mechanism, but it's extremely dangerous. There is a terrible price to pay for exploiting those forces. You must not steal! That way lies madness, and worse. Whole worlds could die, drained dry by her avarice! Send her away, Zarkon. She will bring you no joy. Power, yes, but no joy. I will not wed a man whose only ambition is power, and your world needs what our union will bring it._

How dared she? How _dared_ she demand that Haggar be sent away? Zarkon's temper began to boil. Khiradi the proud, Khiradi the beautiful, Khiradi of Simadht, whose fingers wove potent magic through the strings of her vaiir-harp, music and magic of such beauty that even he had no choice but to stop and listen. Khiradi whose father had offered aid and alliance that his own grandsire had been desperately seeking, for Golraz was vulnerable to the Council's ambitions. Zarkon still felt scorn for his grandfather's cowardice. Had not Haggar shown him a better option? With the new power source she had harnessed both for personal and industrial use, they did not _need_ to make alliances with those washed-out cave dwellers! What a gift Haggar had offered him, and he had foolishly turned it down!

_He what?_ Haggar's voice came to him out of the past, as did the sharp flash of her amber eyes, the fury and frustration in them seeming to strike sparks from the scarlet markings on her pale cheekbones and her polished-steel hair. She had not yet donned the Galran colors that she would wear for ten millennia.  _How dare he? I am so close! Another phebe—a few quintents more, and I will unlock the doors to unlimited power! I could do it this very night, if I didn't bother with half of the containment measures that he insisted upon. I do not need them! Will he never admit that I might know more about this that he does?_

Zarkon's grandfather had demanded that the lab be shut down. That branch of aetheric science had always made him nervous, and he hadn't liked the way that plants had stopped growing on the facility's grounds. Even insects didn't go there anymore, but Zarkon hadn't cared. All that had mattered was what Haggar wanted, and what she could give him in return.

_Then do it,_ he'd said, and he heard his own voice as it had sounded so very many years ago. Young. Had he ever truly been that young?

_Do it,_ he'd said,  _and we'll prove your superiority to him once and for all. We will be the firstborn of a new and greater era._

She had done it. He remembered helping her make the final adjustments, and how her wonderful device's parts had come together, and how the rings of the resonator had glowed a clear, pure, pale purple. There had been a rising hum, and an exaltation of light; a white-gold glory that had filled him with an ecstasy that he had never known before, that had laid a seed of greatness within his heart. His first taste of true power, and by no means the last. To think that he had come so close to losing that, even as he had lost everything that mattered only a little time later--

Blackness. Blackness all around, and ships, and swarms of tiny flickering lights that were not stars.

_By all the Gods... we couldn't stop them. By all the Gods... the planet's gone. They destroyed Golraz._

He barely heard Gyrgan sobbing over the high singing sound of his own shock and horror, and he stared with disbelieving eyes at the burning fragments of his homeworld, the molten core spilling out into the vacuum of space like the yolk of a broken egg.

_No survivors. Alfor, they never had a chance. The Council's fleet gave no warning!_ Blaytz sounded near tears. Zarkon's eyes remained dry.

_Zarkon, that's not the whole armada over there!_ Trigel shouted, her voice anguished, but clear.  _Most of them, but not all. It's missing a squadron or two of heavy destroyers. They're not among the wrecks. Where are they?_

Where were they? They had not been among those who had attacked the planet.

_The colony ships!_ Alfor cried.  _Who's escorting the colony ships?_

Zarkon's hands clamped violently on the control beams, and he turned Voltron around to seek out those precious ships that were now all that was left of a once-great world. He heard the others shouting back and forth—Trigel shouting into her comms, trying to raise the refugee craft; Gyrgan and Blaytz urging Voltron to go faster; Alfor exhorting them all to greater efforts. Zarkon's heart hurt him as though a shard of cold void had knifed through it. Haggar was on one of those ships, the slow but dependable _Ghram Parzurak._ She hadn't been welcome aboard the Royal flagship along with his own family, the noble Houses, and the Simadhi princess, a slight that Zarkon had taken deep offense at. The _Parzurak_ had no guns, being a rebuilt cruise liner, and it was in deadly danger.

They had been very nearly too late. The escort ships had vanished at the first sight of the Council's warcraft, leaving the unarmed colony ships to their doom. Only three ships had survived out of nearly twenty, and not the largest of them at that. The flagship was gone, along with all of his family and all hope for the future. Only the _Ghram Parzurak,_ the _Thrand Hachim,_ and the _Kros Galeth_ had survived, and the _Galeth_ had been badly damaged. His mind like glass, his heart like ice, Zarkon had allowed the others to use Voltron to get the people on those three failing ships safely down into the sands of the world that would soon be known as Golraz Beta. Mind like glass, heart like ice, he had made sure that Haggar was alive and well, which she had been. Mind like glass, heart like ice, he learned how few of his people were left.

And then someone had turned on a portable entertainment set to a public news channel, and he had heard the Council's First Speaker gloating over the cold-blooded murders of more than eight billion people. If his mind was glass, that glass was molten now. If his heart was ice, then it was now scalding steam. The others had turned to him, feeling his rage; the seed of greatness that his first taste of Quintessence had given him sprouted and produced a dark flower. He siezed upon them with that inner greatness, and took them back to the Lions. These he seized upon as well, and took them back, back, riding the wave of his black fury. The Council had forfeited its right to live. For their arrogance and brutality, the punishment would be swift. His comms had come alive with petty complaints from trivial authorities, demanding to know what he was doing, but he disdained to answer them. Never again would he take anyone's orders, nor bow to anyone else's will. The time for diplomacy was done, and he would now do things his way. The very first thing he would do was to go to Tethrix, the Council's private little paradise planet, and--

“Destroy them!” he snarled aloud. “All of them.”

“Y... your Majesty?”

Zarkon blinked. He was sitting in his throne, ten thousand years away from where his mind had been, and a middle-aged General was staring at him as if he'd grown a second head. What had the man been telling him about? Oh, right. The Beronites. Despite the efforts of the Imperial fleets in that region, those wretched little insects had refused to submit. “The Beronites, you idiot,” Zarkon growled, making the man cringe in terror. “Their intransigence annoys me. Destroy them. All of their worlds. All of their people. I will not tolerate defiance.”

“Y-yes, Majesty!”

“See to it,” Zarkon said ominously. He didn't feel well; his shoulder and thigh ached fiercely, and there was a sick emptiness in his heart and a burning sensation in the back of his skull that usually meant that he was due for a dose of Quintessence. “Leave, all of you. I tire of this trivial nonsense.”

He glowered in silence as the various Generals, aides, guards, and functionaries scuttled like insects for the doors, and then took his own leave, limping slightly on his sore leg.

A few minutes later, unseen by all, a single young man in a subaltern's uniform crept back into the empty room, shivering slightly at the aura of ancient rage that hung in the air like smoke, and made his way up the steps to examine the throne itself. He had made a habit of staying silent and keeping his eyes open, and he had seen the Emperor do a curious thing just before he'd spoken that abrupt order. Sure enough, his eyes hadn't lied to him. General Chavric had been reporting on trade statistics in the Guantu Sector, a subject that Zarkon, as far as he knew, had less than no interest in, and yet...

And yet he had gripped the arms of his throne so hard that he'd left easily discernible handprints in the tough metal, and had ordered the destruction of a large number of very profitable planets, moons, and space stations. Chavric had only barely mentioned the Beronite rebellion! Something had been going on inside the Imperial skull that didn't quite match up with everyone else's reality. His comm chirped, making him jump, and a voice asked, _“Well?”_

The young aide shuddered. “I was right, sir. He left prints. I can even see the claw marks. He wasn't paying any attention to Chavric at all. Something's not right.”

There was a sigh from the comm. _“I was afraid of that. Get out of there before he comes back, Kerraz.”_

Kerraz groaned, but headed for the doors in triple-time. “Pendrash... sir... what are we going to _do?_ He's just ordered us to smash up something like fifty-three worlds, and the Beronites are going to fight us claw and grasper the whole way! We'll have to muster the whole Sector's compliment of the Military, and probably more, and that will leave even more territory vulnerable to attack. A lot of the High Houses have business interests in that Sector, too. The whole region will be fouled up for decades!”

“ _I'm aware,”_ Pendrash replied, his tone grim. _“There are ways of deflecting such things, Kerraz, and fortunately I may have one. What is the one thing that Zarkon desires above all else?”_

“Voltron,” Kerraz breathed. “You can summon Voltron?”

“ _It's possible. I cannot guarantee that the Paladins will show up, but it's the best chance that we have to head this off. Come to my office as fast as you can, Kerraz. I have a message for you to take to Vardok, and he is to relay it via Remote Station #724.”_

Remote Station #724! Only the most top secret of top secret missives were sent through that thing! “On my way, sir,” he said, and broke into a run.

The Fleet Captains were arriving now, each after their own fashion. Some, like Captain Ketzewan, had dressed to the nines for the event, reasoning that it was only proper to dress one's best when visiting a royal palace. Others were confident enough of their own authority to know that the King wouldn't mind if they showed up in their regular clothes, so long as they were clean. Others simply couldn't afford anything better, and some simply didn't care. Either way, there were enough casually-dressed people hanging around to make Allura consider that her own team's usual attire might just be acceptable for presentation to the local rulers, although her early training still made her painfully self-conscious of the fact that she'd left all of her gowns aboard the Castle. And of the fact that she had an extra streak of pink on one cheek from her lollipop, but that, at least, was easily taken care of.

Zaianne, the dragons, and the mice had been a whole other story. Zaianne had ridden into the Palace grounds astride Tilla's shoulders, the mice riding on Soluk's back, and all of them had been covered with dirt and torn-up grass. None of them had been in the least bit sorry, and Tilla had refused to give up the ball that she'd stolen from the sports field. The servants in charge of keeping the floors clean had broken down in tears when they had seen that filthy little group, which had turned into cries of astonishment when Zaianne had muttered a short spell and snapped her fingers, and the dirt had slid off of them like water off of a duck. She had smiled at their wild-eyed expressions, straightened her tunic, and had strode off down the hall as proudly as any queen, the mice and dragons marching just as proudly behind her.

They still hadn't been able to persuade Tilla to let go of the ball.

“Don't worry about it, dear,” Lizenne said as they watched one of the pirate captains trying to take it from her and having no luck with that at all. “Fortunately for us, the Halidexans have never put all that much importance in fancy dress, and our hosts are far too sensible to judge people by what they're wearing.”

Allura blushed slightly, but managed a smile. “Sorry. Mother used to receive overdressed ambassadors all the time, and some of them took it to extremes. Has everyone arrived?”

“Not quite,” Lizenne said. “We're still missing Captain Tchak, who was last seen in a gaming arcade in Town. Ketzewan's already sent someone out to fetch him. We're also expecting the Governor, if only in a symbolic capacity.”

Allura recalled what their pilot had told them about the man. “Oh, dear. Do you think he will be able to control himself around us?”

“According to King Trosimon and Queen Abritta, he's a sensible fellow at heart and knows full well what will happen to him if he doesn't,” Lizenne said, frowning at the doors. “Governor Kherig Tranth'Zaio stands to gain a great deal if he merely sits quietly and lets things happen; since his stillness and silence also allows Halidex to continue unmolested and unnoticed by the Emperor, they have come to an agreement.”

Allura nodded. “We were told that much. Have you warned the others?”

“Modhri's making the rounds now, and Yantilee's already informed the Captains.” Lizenne smiled thinly. “Most of them find the notion of a Galra official who can't officiate amusing.”

Allura rolled her eyes. “So long as no one starts shooting... oh. Or bites someone's head off. Has anyone thought to give him one of Pidge's pins?”

Lizenne turned to look at the _Night Terror's_ glittering representative, who was currently standing nose-to-nose with Soluk; they appeared to be sniffing each other over with wary interest. “I can only hope.”

“Sir, we shouldn't be doing this,” the aide protested as they made their way through the seemingly endless halls of the palace, although they both knew that his complaint was mostly for form's sake. “They're the enemies of the Empire!”

“Of the Emperor,” Governor Kherig corrected grimly. “It's becoming increasingly apparent that it's not quite the same thing anymore. You've seen the reports, same as I have, and have spoken to the same rescuees. Look at it this way, Phrane; we'll be the first to get a look at them from close up without actually being captured or killed.”

Phrane heaved a long-suffering sigh. “I know, sir. It's my training, is all, and my family are all royalists. It's hard, sir.”

“Mine are too, and yes. Be glad that we're being kept in the loop at all.” Kherig's ears twitched at the distant rumble of conversation audible from down the hall. It sounded cordial, at least, and there was laughter in it. Real laughter, and neither malicious nor grim. Something went _gronk_ in there, too, which was a little unusual, but the Fleet crews were very diverse. “All we have to do is play nice, and then we can go back to the fort.”

Phrane, who was a Kedrekan and rather taller than Kherig was, peered over his boss's shoulder as they rounded the last corner and groaned. “If we survive the meeting. Sir, they've brought the Hoshinthra.”

Kherig nodded glumly. “I know. Somebody broke into my office last night and left me a note, and these,” he said, pulling a pair of small objects out of a pocket and holding them up. They glinted greenly in the light of the sconces.

Phrane stared at them. “Those look like the Voltron insignia.”

“Yes, and apparently they magically protect you from the wrath of the _Night Terror._ Remind me to ask somebody how it works, will you?” Kherig handed his aide one of them and pinned his to his jacket so that it gleamed among his other badges of rank. “Just do it, man.”

“Sir...” Phrane said, holding the little pin as if it might bite. “Sir, I can't. I took an oath.”

“So did I, and look where it has gotten me.” Kherig's brow furrowed as he reviewed the odd turns that his career had taken. “It's your choice, Phrane. I'll be sad to lose you if you make the wrong one.”

Phrane's hand trembled, and he closed his fist over the tiny emblem. He did not pin it to his shirt, but neither did he drop it.

They stepped through the ballroom doors into a true rogue's gallery; just going by bounties and wanted posters alone, there were enough interstellar criminals assembled here to bankrupt several treasuries, Kherig noted, including... oh, ye Gods. All six Paladins. Several Blades of Marmora. The Rogue Witch and her man, the woman who had killed Commander Sendak, two enormous spiky reptiloids of the sort that had trashed a goodly portion of the Center, what appeared to be four mice, and even the rarely-seen but justifiably-feared mustachioed Altean. The littlest Paladin, who had once crippled most of the Center with the power of her mind alone, appeared to be arguing with a Hoshinthra. Arguing. There was no fear of that monster in her at all.

He paused in his approach, letting the pirates get a good look at him and Phrane; that was necessary, pirates being a high-strung lot. There was a stunning variety of them as well, and he could recognize most of them. Every single corsair of note was represented here tonight, including one that he'd spent several years trying to capture himself, before he'd been appointed Governor; Captain Tchak caught his eye, smiled wryly, and flipped him a mocking little salute.

One of the Paladins, the sort of middling-sized, dark-haired one with the high-collared jacket, said something brief and sharp to his companions. They looked up as one, and formed up together in a motion that had obviously become instinctive for them. They weren't alone; backing them up were the two Galra women and the one man, both reptiloids, all four mice, and the Altean male. All of them were staring at him and Phrane with the same wary expression that presaged either violence or tolerance. He and Phrane froze, hands in plain sight, but for Kherig, that was mere reflex.

He could not help but stare at them in something that he was not quite prepared to call awe. He realized that, mixed though they were, they were what his own great-grandmother had described as _of the pack._ All of them. Even the beasts both great and small. That simple, absolute unity that was so rare these days... and he could see the Lions through the Paladins. He could see Voltron in the way they stood, and in their eyes, and in the deep cohesion they shared. _Legends,_ he thought, and felt a chill running up his spine. These were legends come to life, and there would be no separating them from the great battle machines that the Emperor coveted so. Only once before had he ever seen a group of people anything like these young warriors, and that had been many years ago, and in effigy. He wondered vaguely what they might see in him.

Also staring, but at Phrane only, was the Hoshinthra—if something without eyes could stare—and its fanged jaws parted in a horrible death's head grin...

The green Paladin reached up, grabbed the monster by the long nasal bone, and hauled its head down to her level. _“No,”_ he heard her scold it. “No biting people's heads off at parties, it's rude and makes a big mess on the carpet. _Put the pin on, you big dummy!_ Shussshorim's got no manners and no brakes!”

That last had been hissed at Phrane, who was staring at her in unabashed astonishment. _No one_ had ever dared to do what she was doing now, and the Hoshinthra looked very confused, the great spreading antennae clamped flat back against its neck.

Phrane put the pin on, nearly dropping it in his haste to comply. A chuckle rippled through the watching crowd, and the tension eased. Kherig gave the Paladins a thin smile and a slight bow of respect. “Paladins,” he murmured politely. “While I cannot officially congratulate you upon your successes, I will offer my personal gratitude for keeping the damage to a minimum wherever possible. I hope that you will continue to do so, when and as you can.”

The tall one with the white forelock returned his smile, and the look of understanding in those iron-gray eyes surprised Kherig more than a little. “We'll try,” he said, and then glanced back over his shoulder. “Oops. Hold still and don't panic.”

Kherig would have asked why, but suddenly his view was full of a broad, scaly snout. He'd never seen the great reptiloid move, and a startled yelp from Phrane told him that the other one was checking him over as well. The enormous spiky beasts sniffed them over very carefully, sneezed in a delicate fashion that sounded absurd coming from such fearsome creatures, and then giggled exactly like very young girls. Hearing that, the Paladins relaxed, and grinned as one of the beasts dropped what looked to be a sports ball into Phrane's hands.

“That means that they like you,” the big, round-bellied Paladin said cheerfully, “and that means that you're cool, guys. Glad to have you with us. Um. Pidge, I think that you can let go of the doom moose now.”

The green Paladin still had a firm grip on the Hoshinthra's nose, and she shook it firmly from side to side. “Not until I'm sure that his mom will behave herself. And himself. You two _are_ going to play nice, right?”

The Hoshinthra responded to this thinly veiled threat with an odd explosive noise that could could best be described as _“Gnngthssss!”_

“Good,” Pidge said, letting go of the dreadful skull, and then slapping the lethal jaws aside without even looking around when it tried to snap at her hair.

Kherig glanced over at Phrane, who was looking badly rattled and was gazing in perplexity at the ball in his hands. A dholep ball, Kherig noted absently, generally used in field sports, and remarkably intact when one considered the huge fangs that those beasts had. Phrane looked up at the one that had gifted him the ball, which was sitting on its haunches and gazing expectantly at him. It grunted faintly, and Phrane tossed the ball very gently back. The beast caught it with ease, winked coquettishly at him with three of its six blue eyes, and ambled away.

“Not what you expected?” he asked his sweating aide.

“N... no, sir.” Phrane panted.

“Me niether.” Kherig scanned the crowd again, which had seemingly lost interest in them. He knew better than to believe that, of course. Unobservant pirates were usually dead pirates. “What an unusual group.”

Phrane swallowed hard. “Sir... did you see... I mean... I _know_ you've seen the Stone of Heroes. Every cub has to study it in school. They were just like that!”

Kherig nodded. The Stone of Heroes was a very large and very ancient piece of statuary that had been carved into an outcropping of solid granite well before Zarkon had taken the Throne. No one knew these days who those ancient warriors had been, but the long-ago artist had portrayed them beautifully; every detail had been graven into the diamond-hard rock with consummate skill, each face distinct, every scar and tattoo, every bead on their _khe'guon_ strings, all reproduced with lifelike accuracy. They had been posed as if coming out of the stone itself, stone eyes fixed on the horizon, stone faces smiling eagerly, stone hands gripping stone weapons as they went eternally to the hunt, all as one in their purpose. The great mystery of the Stone was not its origin, but a trick of the carving itself; no one could count the number of warriors and get the same total twice. If one stood back far enough away, one soon realized that the whole Stone itself, carvings and all, had the shape of a single giant warrior, staring watchfully into the distance as if waiting for a worthy opponent to reveal itself. All as one, and as one, greater than any single part; the very essence of the Pack.

“I'm aware, Phrane.” Kherig sighed and ran his fingertips over the little green chevron that he'd been so mysteriously gifted with. “I'm aware, and I am glad that I have chosen not to fight them. We'll observe them instead, and try to look harmless while we're at it.”

Phrane gave him a pained look, but had to admit that there was nothing else that they could do. He might have complained a little more just to show willing, but an odd movement caught their eye—Yantilee had looked down sharply, and then had bowed nearly to the floor for no apparent reason. When the huge Elikonian straightened back up, she had a small figure in her arms, one that Kherig and Phrane recognized as the King's youngest child, a daughter. The child was dressed in what was unmistakably a nightgown, with her hair a mess and missing one slipper, and a look of triumph on her face. From the look of it, she had probably been put to bed early, and had escaped. The little girl clambered up onto the big alien's upper shoulder and waved a small stuffed toy at the crowd.

“ _Alla you people, look at me!”_ she shouted, and when she was sure that she had their full attention, she grinned broadly and declared, “Cap'ns Outrageous, welcome to my Palace! You're all gonna sit around the big table and talk like nice people and plan how you're gonna free all the planets and give the bad guys a smacking! Then you're gonna have a really good dinner 'cause Mister Ronok's helping in the kitchen, and he made _all_ the cookies! He gave me some, and you're really gonna like them 'cause I sure did! Then you're gonna go out and smack bad guys 'cause you're all really good at it! Thank you!”

Phrane blinked as a ripple of laughter and even a few cheers ran through the crowd. “How old is she?”

“Six,” Kherig sighed, and then chuckled. “I see a great future for her in public speech.”

King Trosimon retrieved his unrepentant daughter from the pirate Admiral. “Gentlebeings, I was about to make a speech of welcome, but Trinnie here beat me to it, and her version is the soul and center of mine... and a good deal shorter and less boring. I see no reason to repeat what she has already made very clear, save for a single correction. It's 'captains _courageous_ ', dear, not 'outrageous'.”

“Depends on who you ask,” Yantilee said mildly. “Shall we go and sit around the big table and talk like nice people?”

The King gave Yantilee an appreciative smile and handed his giggling little girl off to a mortified nursemaid who had come puffing into the room. “You know, I think that we should.”

“And that'll be enough of that,” Yantilee said some hours later, squashing another dispute and causing one Captain to go green with disappointment while the other fluffed up his feathers in irritation. “It won't make any difference who goes first on that vector; your ships have equal capabilities and you both know it. Neither of them have the armor for it in the first place. Captain Drusthin, yours has a tougher skin and better shields. Think you can handle that bit?”

Captain Drusthin, a spotted, leathery Ginpharam who looked more than a little like a miniature whale shark, squinted nearsightedly at the hologram of the Rakshane Market Hub that hung over the table. “Might,” he thrummed thoughtfully, “and might not. Tough, yes; good guns, yes; quick and agile, no. If those two flank me as outriggers, it'll do. I'll back 'em through the heavy, they can take me through the quick. All's good?”

The two former disputants mulled that over and allowed as how it was possible. Yantilee nodded and moved on to the next topic.

Keith leaned back in his chair, listening intently as the big Elikonian ran the sims and steered the conference toward a workable battle plan with a word here, a suggestion there, and the occasional squelched ego. Keith had never been very good at this sort of thing himself, and was determined to learn. His mixed blood might give him courage, but it also made him reckless; if Shiro's absence had taught him anything, it was that he needed to learn how to plan, and how to manage people. The key, it seemed, was getting the fractious ones to do things by making it seem like their idea. Yantilee also listened to everyone; no suggestion was discarded until it had been given a good looking-at, and even if it wasn't immediately useful, it was kept in mind. Battlefields were very fluid situations, and every idea was potentially useable; even though Modhri had told them of the subtle machinations of Trenosh's grandfather, Yantilee had decreed that a secondary and even a tertiary plan would be a good thing to have if negotiations fell through, and most of the Captains understood battles better than business.

Even so, the meeting was running long. Dinner had been served somewhere in the middle of it, and the discussion had continued unabated right over the food and drink. The little princess had been right about the cookies, though. Even interstellar warfare had wound up taking a backseat to the cookies for a little while there. Throughout the whole thing, the two Galra officials had been very quiet, observing without comment and occasionally taking notes. Keith had no doubt that Kolivan had those two under his eye, but he had to wonder exactly why they were being allowed to attend at all--

His thoughts stopped dead when he felt Shiro go rigid next to him. There was a fizzing in the back of his mind and a faint haziness at the corners of his eyes, and when he looked at his team leader, he saw that Shiro was firmly in the grip of his Lion-gifted talent. Shiro was staring wide-eyed at nothing that existed within the room, and from his expression, whatever it was, it wasn't good. Keith could feel the pressure building, and concentrated on the Lion-bond. The others were doing the same, holding Shiro steady until whatever was trying to come through achieved its purpose. The pupils of his iron-gray eyes had distended enormously, and were glittering with constellations that did not exist on this side of reality, and he was sweating with the effort of it. Slowly, Shiro rose out of his seat, leaning his hands on the table; moving with a terrible smooth precision that was more like a machine than a living man, he turned his otherworldly gaze upon the group of Beronite captains, who reeled back in shock.

Shiro's breath hissed through his teeth, and in a voice with a peculiar echo in it, he said: _“She's burning.”_

With those words, the spell broke with a nearly-audible _crack_ , and Shiro collapsed heavily back into his chair. Keith heaped more cookies onto Shiro's plate while Hunk refilled his glass.

Lance winced and rubbed at his brow as Shiro gulped down half of his glass in one go. “Big one. Gonna tell the rest of us, Chief?”

“What was that?” one of the captains quavered nervously, and Keith noticed that the two Galra officials were staring at Shiro in open astonishment.

“That was a powerful Seer in action,” Lizenne said sharply. “A talent that I lack completely, thank whatever may be listening. Are you all right, Shiro?”

Shiro nodded, washing down a mouthful of cookie with a sip of water and giving the startled captains an apologetic look. “I'm fine. Zarkon's done something. There is... there are planets in danger. Many of them. I saw a world being destroyed. Don't know whose. A green world, mountains, huge forests. A... a temple, I think. Very large, lots of six-sided buildings, all made of some purplish-blue stone. It was beautiful, and then it was gone.”

One of the Beronites shrilled in horror and scrabbled a small hologram projector out of her pocket, activating it to show the table the Nemortine holy of holies. “This Temple?”

Shiro nodded. “That's the one. It took a direct hit.”

The Beronites shrieked in fury, and the captain banged her claws down on the table with more force than one would expect from the delicate-seeming insectoid. “He dares! When will this occur?”

Shiro frowned, his eyes looking inward. “I--”

There was suddenly shouting from the hallway, and the sound of running feet. A Galra soldier burst gasping into the room with a couple of palace guards close behind him, and he staggered to where the Governor sat, waving something small in one hand. “Sir!” he panted desperately, “Urgent message, from the private line. Code seven-twenty-four. I got it here as fast as I could.”

“Well done, man,” the Governor said, taking the message card from the soldier and excusing himself to go and read it in a corner.

The soldier sagged against the back of his empty chair in relief, and then seemed to notice the company he was in. Keith couldn't help but smile as the poor man stared in horror at the Ghost Fleet Captains, some of whom gave him little waves and gestures of greeting, then at Keith and the other Paladins, Lizenne and Modhri, and lastly at the Hoshinthra, who was starting to rise to its feet like a horror-movie monster. Pidge grabbed its nose again, and a sympathetic captain passed the soldier a little green pin.

When the Governor came back to the table, they saw that he had gone gray beneath his fur, and he moved as though he were in shock. Something about the look in his eyes stilled the buzz of quiet conversation, and when he broke that silence, pieces of it rattled to the floor.

“Your Majesty,” he said, nodding to their host, and then to the other people around the table. “Admiral, Captains, Paladins. I must inform you of something very important, and I ask for your silence in return. If word gets back to the Emperor that I have informed you of this, I will be lucky if he just has me killed. Your vision is accurate, Paladin--” he nodded at Shiro, “--less than half an hour ago, Zarkon ordered the destruction of all Beronite planets and the eradication of their race. The entire Sector's worth of military craft are being mustered as we speak to obey him, and I am told that at least one planet-buster is being readied for deployment. It is estimated that they should be ready to begin the extermination in approximately five days by the Galran standard. Possibly less.” Governor Kherig took a deep, steadying breath. “Such an undertaking will be an absolute disaster for everyone for Sectors around, the Empire included. Billions of lives, Galra as well as everyone else, will be lost. I am asked to contact the Fleet to pass this information to the Paladins; this was a decision made by the Emperor seemingly on impulse alone; he has begun to show signs of... instability... perhaps brought on by injuries sustained in his recent battles.”

Allura sat up sharply, eyes wide. “Is that possible, Lizenne?”

“It is,” Lizenne replied thoughtfully. “You caught him twice with a fully active bone spear, Allura, and it is very likely that it left a mark in the man that Haggar cannot heal. Shiro may have stirred things around in his mind as well; I cannot be certain without having the Emperor in for a good look, and that isn't going to happen. Even before his people suffered that genetic bottleneck ten thousand years ago, the Golrazi had a reputation for occasionally going mad as they aged; the Quintessence he takes to keep himself alive may have delayed that, but there are limits.”

The Governor swayed slightly, swallowed hard, and continued. “You may be right, my Lady. He has always been harsh and obsessive, particularly where it comes to the Lions, but his current behavior bodes ill for the Empire. My contact suggests that an appearance by Voltron where he can see it may well draw his attention away from the destruction of the Beronites, and further suggests that you reveal yourselves near Heranthi—Selphuro Sector, quadrant two, the fourth planet in the Opikipal Solar System. That is just on the edge of Beronite space and is a very rich and influential Galran colony world. Several of the High Houses have property and interests there, and they will raise a fuss at the Center if they feel that their possessions are in danger. If Zarkon focuses his wrath upon you...”

“Then he won't be interested in bashing up someone else's planets,” Lance said. “Gotcha. Unfortunately, that means that we've got everyone and their phoenix hound chasing us around, which might just be a tiny bit more than we can handle. We already know that Haggar's rebuilding her monster-maker lab, and if one of those joins the party, that's going to be bad. How do we know that this isn't some sort of trap, pal?”

The Governor winced at his tone and laid the message chip down on the table. “You do not. I have nothing to give you that can stand as proof.”

“You might,” Kolivan rumbled. “Who is your contact?”

Governor Kherig stood silently for a moment, struggling with his oaths and ideals before seeming to deflate. “General Pendrash. He puts the safety of the Empire above the word of the Emperor. I ask that you not speak of this to anyone either. I will give you a way to contact him if I must, but both he and I would far rather you didn't insist upon that.”

Kolivan gestured reassuringly. “No need. His office and ours has already had some small contact with each other, to our mutual satisfaction.”

The Governor shuddered in relief. “Thank you. What will you do now, people?”

Yantilee shrugged. “We can shelve the attack on Rakshane if we have to, and the Beronites have the right to call on us for help. Voltron isn't totally necessary for taking the trade hubs, not with the kind of advantages they've given us already, so they can do as they like. Your choice, Paladins.”

Keith turned to look at his team, and they all had the same worried look on their faces that he did. Hunk humphed and sat back, arms crossed over his chest. “You know, when I was a kid I used to get all mad at Mom and Dad, usually when they wanted me to do something that I really didn't want to do, and I used to think how great it would be when I was a grownup. I could make all my own decisions and live how I wanted, and nobody could boss me around or tell me to clean up my room. Well, you know what? Being an adult sucks. Can I go back to being a kid again?”

Shiro puffed a laugh. “Sorry, Hunk. I can only see time, not rewind it. The Governor is right, and I thank you for this information, Kherig. If something isn't done, the Beronite worlds will be under attack in three days. I think that we may be able to draw the Empire's forces away--”

“And you will have our aid in that!” the Beronite Captain chirred angrily. “For this outrage, the Empire will pay dearly!”

“No,” Shiro said flatly. “You and your people will be needed to protect your worlds, and if Zarkon sees you helping us, he'll have your people destroyed regardless of what we do. The Empire can still exert a massively overwhelming force; there are hundreds of thousands of warships, and only one Voltron. We won't be able to stop them all. As Kherig said, we may be able to draw them off if we...” he smirked. “What was that you suggested to Allura once, Lizenne? Just before you rescued Sam and Matt for us?”

Lizenne chuckled. “That Voltron might appear in an outer orbit, drop its pants and make a crude gesture, and then run away.” She smiled at the ripple of laughter that passed through the crowd. “An amusing idea, yes, and one that might have worked out a little better if I hadn't knifed that Druid. Lance, dear, do you think that you could sew up a pair of trousers that large?”

Lance rubbed at his chin and looked thoughtful, but Allura shook her head. “I doubt that large-scale tailoring will help. Proper positioning and timing will. Governor Kherig, how is an extermination generally carried out?”

All eyes turned to Kherig, and he dipped a small, respectful bow in her direction. “In most cases, a single planet is destroyed, usually because the people involved have only one, and perhaps a few thinly-settled colony worlds. In cases where the race in question has fully colonized three or more planets, the destruction fleets begin with the homeworld and work outward from there. The loss of the homeworld has been proven to maximize confusion and demoralization of the condemned race, making the project easier. The Beronites are unusual in that all of their ships are potential warships, and ones nearly as powerful as our own. Getting the planet-buster to their homeworld will not be a simple matter.”

“I'd heard that they were short-range craft,” Modhri said.

Kherig nodded. “Despite their firepower, their drives require frequent refueling, and moving a craft of that size is no small matter. That was one of the reasons why General Prorok was trying to get the Bagantush Destroyer built; it was to have had a far greater range than the Tarzeroth-class destroyers do. It will never be built now; I believe it was you, sir, who stole the plans, and Prorok met his end in Haggar's lab not long afterward.”

Modhri winced and rubbed at the scar across one bicep, where a new arm had been grafted on. “Poor fellow. I did not know the man, but there are few whom I would condemn to that fate.”

Kherig shuddered. “It was an unnecessary death. It was later found that he had been framed by an agent of the Blade of Marmora for the shutting down of the Center's force-shield during an attack by the Paladins. This allowed them to escape, and the Emperor was not pleased. Prorok was used in the creation of a Robeast, one that could absorb enormous quantities of matter and convert it to energy almost instantly, giving it a weapon far more powerful than conventional ion cannons.”

Keith banged a fist onto the table. “That was the one that almost had us! We didn't have enough experience with Voltron to take it down yet, and Ulaz sacrificed himself to destroy it for us. But Zarkon let Haggar use one of his own Generals?”

Kherig rubbed at his face wearily. “Yes. The Emperor will not keep those who disappoint him around. No matter how talented they might be, one mistake can mean their demise. Success can mean favor, fame, and fortune, but the risk is very high, and Zarkon's patience is limited. What have you done with the plans that you have stolen, Modhri?”

Modhri steepled his fingers and gazed consideringly at Kherig over the peak of them. “As yet, nothing. I have already offered them to the High Nomora, who turned them down.” He smiled faintly at the sounds of shock and dismay around the table. “Apparently, the temptation to do something inappropriate with such a weapon was more than she felt her people could resist; a decision that I respect. I have considered offering those plans to the Olkari, who are a kindly people of great talent. Partnered with the proven skills of the Beronites... who knows? The whole ship need not be built. Portions of it, to be repurposed into smaller, more efficient ships, may be a more worthy line of research. Our own people have concentrated upon overwhelming force for far too long.”

“You may be right,” Kherig said grimly, and shook his head. “That is not important at this time. Admiral, can you bring up a sim of Beronite space?”

Yantilee reached out with one hand and tapped the holo-projector's controls, bringing up the shining, complex region immediately. “I've been thinking ahead,” Yantilee said with a flick of a finger toward the gleaming nebula. “They're half-free of Imperial control already, and bringing them in the rest of the way would give the Coalition a major boost. Here's Beros, smack in the middle, and they've already dealt with their Governor some time ago. This is the area that's clear of garrison ships, but the rest are still Empire territory. Does Zarkon like to watch when a world burns, and where would be best for Voltron to moon him? More to the point, what will it do when it's got his attention? That's going to be a big armada, Paladins.”

Pidge glared at the hologram. “I need more information. Does anyone know anybody in the area who can give me troop movements in real-time?”

Kolivan raised a hand. “Jasca can find that information. Also, weren't you able to gain control of a planet-buster once?”

Pidge made a face. “Yeah, but it nearly killed me. Actually... hey, Keith? We still need to work on shield-cracking together. Lizenne said something a while ago about you tying a spark of your purifaction-power to my Spike of Hantis, like a fire-arrow. Want to practice on the hex-drone when we're done here? If we can take that planet-buster, we can thin out the competition a little and probably make Zarkon too angry to think about anything else.”

Keith frowned, concentrating on his own odd talent. _Fire,_ he thought, fiddling with his napkin as he did so. Fire didn't travel all that well from its source, not really. Without fuel, it couldn't exist. Maybe he could sort of... put a dab of power out there or something, like a bit of kindling or a drop of oil--

Someone yelped, and there was a sudden scent of burning. He looked down and saw that the fine embroidered cloth in his hands was clean; he'd burned off the food stains without harming the fabric. Keith smiled and took a deep drink of cold water from his glass. “Yeah, that might be a good idea. And if we take over a few flagships, too, that'll really have him steaming.”

“In the end, it doesn't matter where we stand to deliver our challenge,”Allura said. “Someone will contact the Center regardless. Kherig's suggestion of Heranthi remains valid, although a more central location might be better, to attract the attention of the whole force. I would prefer to stay well away from Beros, to reduce the risk to that world. Is there an area of empty space that might be better?”

To everyone's surprise, Kherig's aide raised a hand. “The Nanthral Dwarf Cluster,” he said, “near the southwestern edge of that big nebula. It's a small cluster of white dwarf stars where a nova cascade took place billions of years ago. No habitable planets, just a lot of dust, gas, and junk. My sister went prospecting for exotic minerals there once and found enough loose gethexite floating around to interest the asteroid miners. It's not a large operation, but their comms are good. If Voltron shows up over there, they'll start howling on all channels in hopes of getting a reward, and then they'll cut and run when the warships show up.”

Yantilee touched the controls again, focusing in on that empty little cluster, showing a sketchy little space station and the tiny moving dots of mining craft. One of the captains flapped his/her cilia to get their attention. “I know those miners,” he/she said triumphantly, “they have engaged my services before, to run black-market cargo for them. Mainly refined gethexite, but also small amounts of octhrine, toroid litninite, and metallic victrine. Very valuable. Also valuable is a small spacial anomaly near that star, there—not easily found, but very convenient. A natural, stable wormhole, leading directly into the inner orbits of the Queghomm System three quadrants away. Small ships go with ease. One or two large ships also pass easily. Whole fleets? No.”

“Nice,” Hunk said, eyes sparkling. “A stable wormhole? How rare is that? I'm liking that spot, guys. A nice clear field with a built-in escape route sounds good. Where's Queghomm, anyway?”

“Used to be in the backyard of the old Drinthic Consortium, back in the day,” Coran informed them with a nostalgic smile. “A bit of a tyranny, actually, overseen by the Biniriparka of Zorept. Horrible fellow, he was one of those iron-fist rulers that never bothered with the velvet gloves. Secret police everywhere, had to get official permits to so much as scratch your bottom, huge restrictions on everything from socks to star-travel. You never saw a populace so downtrodden, so Alfor and his team put a stop to him, and he was such a poor sport about it that Alfor let the people reward us according to local tradition. A bit gruesome in spots, that, but ironclad, and Alfor was never one to turn down the promise of a favor in the future. He had a special case made for the official documentation, too. Not sure who runs the region now.”

“The Drinths are still around, and are a major partner in a Collective of minor powers in that area,” Zaianne said. “The Othorim Collective capitulated to the Empire immediately upon their first arrival a few hundred years ago, and have been Zarkon's subjects ever since. Some few of the members chafe under his rule, but they're very quiet about it. If we don't hang about, they may not mention us if we have to use that wormhole. Lizenne, we may want to position the _Chimera_ and the Castle near that point, to keep that escape route open in case we need it.”

“I will warn the miners,” the knowledgeable pirate captain said firmly. “It is only right. They are good business partners.”

Shiro smiled. “Sounds good. It's not every day that you can pick your own battlefield. Tell Jasca to keep us posted, Kolivan, and we'll show up right on time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I adore comments topped with chocolate and served chilled. Spanch likes hers sauteed in garlic and butter. Either way, we crazed fanfic writers would starve without the kind words of our readers. So thank you as always for your thoughts and encouragement, and have a good day!
> 
> (I'mma go sleep now...)


	12. The Machinations of Fate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG WE'RE LATE WE DON'T EVEN HAVE AN EXCUSE WE JUST TOTALLY FORGOT TO POST A CHAPTER LAST WEEK AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!! *flails like fifty million flailing Kermits*
> 
> Also, this chapter has moments that are pure indulgence on my part. You'll see where. ^_~

Chapter 12: The Machinations of Fate

Lotor leaned on the balcony rail and smiled in satisfaction as the _Kevrachi-_ Class ship on the repair bay floor below hummed and came back to life before him. Small though they were when compared to even a light cruiser, they packed the punch of a destroyer and were far faster and more agile. As he watched, one of the purloined technicians stuck his head out of the hatch and shouted at a trainee to run checks on the thrusters.

“Has there been any trouble?” he asked Tilwass, who'd been keeping an eye on the ten Nelargo ship techs for him.

“Not as far as any of us has seen, sir,” Tilwass said with a shrug. “They were a little miffed about your having Hokora shift their allegiance to you instead of Lady Inzera, but they sort of shrugged and carried on anyhow. You assigning the smartest of our techs to them as trainees helped.”

“Hmmm,” Lotor mused, casting a sidelong look at Tilwass. “And Sergeant Hokora?”

“Grumpy, sir. She likes those guys, and now she really doesn't like Ghurap'Han's Matriarch.” Tilwass gave him a thin smile. “She's got Views about hexes, and Views about how you treat good men, and if we ever run into Lady Inzera again, Hokora's going to punch her in the face.”

Lotor snorted a laugh. “I'd pay to see that, actually. Hokora is twice that old woman's mass, but Inzera's vicious. I take it that Hokora's been looking after them?”

Tilwass sighed. “Yup. Not sure how it works, but when you fiddle with someone's implanted hex, you get a good look at the one carrying it—from the inside out, I mean. Hokora liked what she saw, and I think she may be getting interested in one of them.”

Lotor rolled his eyes. “So long as she doesn't steal him before he's taught our techs how to repair and maintain those ships, I don't care.”

Tilwass waved a dismissive hand. “It won't happen. They're good men, sir. The techs like them, and so do the rest of the crew. They do their work and don't cause trouble, and Hokora respects that.”

Lotor humphed faintly. “Good enough. Has anything of note happened since that last transmission?”

Tilwass waggled a hand sourly; that brief sighting of the Castle and the _Chimera_ near Arcobi had proven fruitless. “Yessir, but I'm not sure that we should check it out. The Emperor just ordered the destruction of a fair bit of the Selphuro Sector.”

Lotor looked at him sharply. “What happened?”

“Nobody's too sure. One moment he was listening to some General or other delivering a report, and the next, he was decreeing the destruction of the Beronites. Just like that. No reason, except that there's an uprising going on over there. Like that's news! There are uprisings _everywhere_ right now.”

“But it may well draw Voltron out of hiding for us,” Lotor said thoughtfully, “and so many warships in one place might attract the _Night Terror_ as well.”

Tilwass shifted uneasily. “Maybe, sir, she's been expanding her range. Patrols have been catching glimpses of her all over the Empire. Just glimpses, no fighting, and it's making them nervous. Voltron's not really our problem, sir, your Dad said as much. Maybe we should concentrate on one monster at a time?”

Lotor gave him a look of contempt. “No. I have a score of my own to settle with the Paladins, and I will take any opportunity to defeat them that comes my way. They will not be able to resist an attempt to stop the destructor fleet, and that fleet will not object to our aid. If the _Terror_ surfaces, then all to the better; she will be vastly outnumbered in such a battle.”

“That's never stopped her before, sir,” Tilwass said uneasily. “Sir, I'm not sure she's alone.”

Lotor's head snapped around to face him fully. “What?”

“It's the reports of sightings, sir,” Tilwass explained. “I've checked the transmission dates, and some of them have come in seconds apart and whole Galaxies distant at the same time. Unless she's got a drive upgrade that can get her places before she ever left, there's more than one Warleader still out there. From the look of things, there may be a lot more.”

“Are any of those sightings confirmed?” Lotor demanded.

Tilwass shivered. “Maybe a quarter of them, sir, but there are a lot of them.”

Lotor slashed a hand through the air in a negative gesture that made Tilwass flinch. “Then I will not waste time on them. The Hoshinthra Warleaders have never made a habit of subtlety; even before their worlds were crushed, if they saw an Empire ship, they attacked. They did not bother with sneaking about, and the behavior of the one survivor of my Father's judgment has held true, even with the cloaking device that she acquired from the Ghost Fleet. Have any of our techs figured out how such a thing might work, by the way?”

“Not ours,” Tilwass admitted. “I asked one of the Nelargo guys and he thought about it for a while, scribbled a bunch of weird figures on a noteboard, and said that it was possible. They haven't had any time to get any further than that.”

Lotor scowled at the ship below. “Perhaps we should make time. Tell the pilots to take us to the Selphuro Sector. I want to be there to see what comes of my Father's decree. I very much doubt that it will go unchallenged.”

“Yessir,” Tilwass said, and headed for the bridge.

Keith drew in a deep breath and let it out, his exhalation steaming on the air. They'd had to make some concessions for this practice session because Lance had wanted a nap and Hunk was experimenting in the kitchen. Since it was Allura's turn to pilot the ship and Shiro wasn't any good at this sort of thing, Keith and Pidge had decided to use a simpler method to deal with the waste heat from Keith's efforts. The end result was that he was currently floating on his back in the upside-down pool, watching the hex-laden gladiator drone stalking around on the floor far below. It was working fairly well, actually, and he got to look at Pidge in a bathing suit while he did it, which in his secret heart of hearts was a major bonus. He just wished that eating while swimming wasn't such a bad idea.

Pidge was starting to look as though she was wondering what he tasted like too, but she was reluctant to give up on their project. They'd been trying to turn her Spike of Hantis into a fire-arrow all morning, but without success. There was just some sort of disconnect there, something that was getting in the way of a proper combination of powers; they could do it, sort of, when they were in the Lions, but they both agreed that it wasn't a good idea to rely totally on the great fighting machines.

“One more time?” he asked, and she nodded.

In his mind's eye, a shining silver-green needle took shape, like an arrow without an arrowhead. He could feel the subtle disruptive power of it like a discordant note, like the famous monkeywrench on its way to a handy engine, like the steel bar about to slide through the spokes of a turning wheel. He tried to tie a ribbon of cleansing fire around it, but once again, he could not get it to bind. He'd tried everything, from dousing the Spike in flammable power to wrapping the aetheric equivalent of a gasoline-soaked rag around it, but it all slipped right off as if the Spike were frictionless. Something, somewhere, was holding back...

He hissed out his breath in a curse as the whole thing fell apart again, and the water around him was several degrees warmer.

“Crud,” Pidge groaned wearily. “I'm taking a break. Want to go see if there's anything in the fridge?”

Keith was no less disappointed, and no less hungry. “Sure. Damn. We shouldn't be having this much trouble. Maybe we should ask Mom about it, or Lizenne.”

Pidge shook her head and then hauled herself out of the water, sitting down on the edge of the pool, picking up the remote control and deactivating the gladiator as she did so. “Zaianne's chasing Shiro around the training deck right now, and Lizenne said earlier that she was working in the envirodeck today. Something about fertilizing some sort of plant or other, and that she shouldn't be disturbed 'cause it's one of the tricky ones. We're just going to have to figure this one out on our own.”

He sighed and paddled toward the pool ladder, pulling himself out of the water with an irritated heave and sitting down next to her. “It's just frustrating, is all. I can mesh with Lance without any trouble, and you work with Hunk like it's the easiest thing in the world. I've never really tried to lock in with Hunk, and you know how much trouble we're having. Shiro and Allura hook into the rest of us like it's the next best thing to breathing.”

She nodded and handed him a towel. “Yeah. I think it has something to do with opposites attracting or the way some Elements react neutrally to each other. We're sort of making it up as we go along, aren't we? It's not Altean alchemy or Galra magic, and if Humans ever had real magical talent, we've left it in our other genes. Hah. I used to avoid fantasy books, Keith. I liked science better. Science happens in the real world, and it gets _results._ And now we're out here, where magic _is_ a science, with results, and I've got nothing to base it on!”

Keith rubbed his hair vigorously with the towel to get the water out of it and glared up at the motionless drone. “I don't understand it any more than you do. Probably a lot less. All I do know is where to point it, and that we all work best when we're all hooked up together. I just wish I knew what was blocking me. I mean, I know that there are a lot of plants that need fire to spread their seeds, and that machines need power, but I just can't get through.”

Pidge draped her towel over her shoulder and gave him a measuring look. “Maybe it has something to do with your being half-Galra.”

Keith scowled at her. None of them had made any issue of that for months, aside from asking him when he'd go purple and fuzzy. “What?”

Pidge rolled her eyes at his dangerous tone. “Instincts, Keith. You've got a whole second set that you don't know all that much about. Haven't you been watching your Mom? How she acts around Modhri, or Kolivan, or Vennex or Trenosh or any of the Blades, and how they act around her? Or how Lizenne and Modhri act around each other, for that matter.”

Keith blinked, surprised by this observation. “What do you mean?”

“Distance,” Pidge said firmly, waving a finger at him. “If Lizenne and Modhri were any closer, they'd have had three clutches of cubs already, or would have joined a circus freak show as a pair of Siamese twins. Ever notice how Lizenne stays between him and Zaianne when they're all together? He's hers. Even though they're technically sisters, your mom has to keep her distance from Modhri. It's instinctive. They don't even realize that they're doing it.”

Keith sorted through his memories, and had to concede that Pidge might be onto something. “All right. So?”

Pidge smirked at him. “When it's just her around the other guys, there's that distance again. She's not interested in them, and they know on an instinctive level that they'll get smacked if they push into her personal space, so they don't. It has to be that way, 'cause a girl can set them on fire if they annoy her. They learn that as cubs. That's a law of nature, Keith—the dumb ones die first. When we had Helenva around, how did you react to her?”

“I... I kept my distance!” Keith said, very surprised. “It just made sense. She was too busy chasing Lance around and pulling his ears... which Modhri said was a sort of courting behavior. She wasn't interested in me.”

Pidge giggled. “Plus, his ears are bigger than anyone other than Allura's or Coran's. Allura's a girl, and Coran is... well...”

“He's Coran,” Keith finished with a smile. “Ears are kind of significant to Galra, anyway. That's because... hey! Because that's how a woman tells her boyfriend that he's hers. Modhri told us about that, all the way back in the beginning. The instinctual triggers—there's that instinct thing again—are really powerful, and he... crud.”

_He cannot help but love her,_ Modhri's voice stated solemnly in his mind, and when he looked at Pidge, he knew that those words were running through her head as well. Both of them blushed hard and looked away.

She nibbled on a thumbnail. “Well,” she said after a moment. “I've done it to you twice now, and you're not exactly fawning all over me. Maybe you're too Human for that sort of reaction. Or you're not old enough. How long does it take a Galra to get to adulthood, anyway?”

“I don't know,” Keith said, trying to stop blushing through sheer willpower.

“Or maybe it's the Lion-bond messing things up a little,” she continued, “or maybe... I don't know. You've never really gotten interested in me or in Allura. Maybe you don't swing that way? Zaianne says that a lot of Galra men prefer other men. It's a way of coping with that gender disparity they've got.”

“What?” Keith yelped, dropping his towel into the pool. “No! No, it's not like that!”

Pidge gave him a Look. He could feel both sets of instincts responding to it. Keith deflated and retrieved his towel, then wrung it out and draped it over the ladder rail. “Oh, all right. I'm not alone, though. I've seen how you've been looking at Shiro. And at Lance. The Lion-bond again, right? And Hunk will cuddle any of us.”

“It's part of his charm,” Pidge agreed, turning to dangle her feet in the water. “Well, we were warned. I think you're cute, too, if it helps. Got any confessions of unrequited love for me? Or for Allura, maybe?”

Keith snorted and fought down an urge to hide under his still-dripping towel. “I wouldn't know where to start. I never really got a chance to learn. Dad kept us pretty isolated, and Uncle Jake was always off in some other country. As for school, well... I was always the weird angry kid, and people kept their distance when they weren't trying to bully me. I didn't know why until Lizenne told me what Mom's knife really was. What _I_ really was.”

Pidge skootched over until she was sitting right next to him, and wrapped a sympathetic arm around his shoulders. Heartened by that, he leaned into the embrace. Her body was very warm, he noticed, and she smelled nice, and the arm around his shoulders was as strong as it was delicate-seeming.

“It's not something I've ever really considered,” he mused, half to himself. “No one was really quite _right,_ except for Shiro, and that's because he went the extra mile for me. Just like in the drama vids, you know? Older guy takes bad boy under his wing and believes in him no matter what. It was such a damned cliche that I couldn't believe that it was happening at first. And then he vanished, and then we all got hijacked, and now I'm living with the first two girls who've ever treated me like a person instead of a nuisance or a half-wild animal. And one guy who's a teddy bear in a Human suit, and Space Dad, and a goofy jerk that I'm starting to find weirdly attractive.”

Pidge snickered. “And the two girls are Mean Space Big Sister and Crazy Magic Nerd Sister, right?”

Keith shrugged. “Allura's a Princess. Princesses boss people around. At least she's good at it. You're a crazy magic nerd all right, and proud of it--”

“You betcha!”

“--and one that I'd really like to get to know a lot better.” Keith turned his head to meet her honey-amber eyes. “I just don't know where to start. Human society says that the ideal woman is supermodel-grade pretty, wildly sexy, and hopefully has a rich father. Mom says Galra men like their women fast, strong, and smart. Since you're all three of those, I think that I'll go with the Galra option.”

Pidge had gone very red again, but she poked him in the ribs with one finger. “What about Allura? She's fast, strong, smart, _and_ beautiful. And had a rich father.”

Keith heaved a sigh. “One at a time, Pidge. One at a time, and you're right here, and Mom likes you, and you've already tickled my ears twice. I like sparring with you, I like being around you, and if you think it'll help loosen me up, go ahead and tickle my ears again. If I fall madly in love with you... what the hell. I'm halfway there already.”

If anything, she went even redder. “After we've eaten,” she told him, waving a finger under his nose. “I'm starving, and we both need a moment to cool down.”

He couldn't dispute it. Neither could his stomach, which growled loudly, making them both laugh. “Fine,” he said, heaving himself to his feet and grabbing his towel. “I think that Hunk made some tanrook buns earlier. There may be some left. Let's go and see.”

Pidge hopped up eagerly. “Good idea.”

Hunk barely noticed it when they came into the kitchen, being far too busy with his current cooking experiment. Pidge recognized it as one of the “volatile” recipes from Ronok's cookbook—delicious, nutritious, and exciting to make. Ganduphan pocket-bread, she thought, which was rich, buttery, and as airy as Earthly popovers, but the dough had to be beaten into submission twice before it could be safely baked. This looked like the second rising, and it was fighting Hunk for possession of the rolling pin. Both she and Keith knew better than to distract him at such a crucial moment, so they settled for rifling through the fridge. They were in luck; four tanrook buns were there for the grabbing, as well as a plate of lelosha wraps, half a loaf of baked grathi, and a tub of tapphao noodles with tali sauce.

“Leftovers,” Pidge sighed happily as they shoved this bounty into the kitchen's equivalent of a microwave. “I used to practically live on leftovers. Mom couldn't even complain about it, since it kept me off of junk food and greaseburgers.”

Keith snorted a brief laugh. “Lucky. Dad was an okay cook, but Uncle Jake wasn't, and I usually wound up eating at the base's canteen or getting bags of cheezy-poofs and pretzo-minis from the gas station down the road. Greaseburgers were the stuff of life, plus cheese fries. I didn't even know that vegetables weren't naturally limp and yellowish until Shiro proved it to me, and if Dad hadn't taught me the basics of hunting and gathering before he died, I probably would have gotten the base in trouble by dying of malnutrition. As you might remember, Galaxy Garrison's cafeteria wasn't all that much better. Mom thinks that's part of why I'm short for a Galra.”

Pidge looked him up and down, noting that he'd grown another centimeter or two while she hadn't been looking. “You're starting to make up for it now.”

The microwave pinged, and he pulled out their lunch, nodding thoughtfully. “Yeah. Hunk's cooking is great, but that first batch of tanrook buns we got—remember that first time? We actually fought over the last one. That was the best food I'd ever had in my life up until then, and then Lizenne started teaching Hunk what she knew, and then she started feeding us things from the envirodeck. I've outgrown my clothes twice already, but Mom says that I'll probably always be a little undersized. It's okay, it just means that I can go where anyone bigger can't.”

Pidge handed him a fork. “Want to help me found a secret organization of small people? We could call it the Fellowship of the Short and use our pygmy powers to secretly rule the universe.”

Keith grinned at her, but shook his head. “Maybe after we've saved it from the big mean guys. It can be a hobby for when we aren't putting out fires.”

“Maybe,” she said agreeably, and carried her food out to the table.

Conversation was suspended for a time as they slaked their massive appetites, interrupted only once by a triumphant shout from the kitchen, and a series of loud thumping noises, like someone hitting a mattress very hard with a baseball bat. The slam of an oven door followed that, and Pidge, who had been listening with an experienced ear, murmured, “Good batch.”

Keith, his mouth full of cosmic pasta, merely grunted.

They finished their lunch with dispatch and put the dishes into the cleanser, waving to Hunk in passing; Hunk was busily flipping through his cookbook again, apparently on the hunt for the next worthy challenge, and he waved back but didn't pause in his search.

“Stress baking?” Keith asked as they headed back to the pool room.

“Possibly,” Pidge replied. “Ronok used to make pocket-bread when he was mad about something. It gave him something to hit that Doc wouldn't yell at him about later. I'm not going to complain. Pocket-bread's really good, and if it helps Hunk work out his jitters, then it's cool. We do have a big fight coming up soon, and if we weren't doing this, then I'd probably be in the lab, building a chicken house.”

Keith rolled his eyes. “You're going to build one anyway.”

“Yeah, but I don't see us winning a space battle in a Baba Yaga-mobile,” Pidge pointed out. “Making a proper fire-arrow will be more of a help. Will you want to get back into the pool?”

Keith stepped into the lift and pushed the button for the pool level with a frown. “Probably. I like my eyebrows where they are.”

Pidge felt that Keith had a very nice pair of eyebrows, thick and dark and elegant, and couldn't help but agree. They'd only just grown back in from the last time he'd accidentally scorched them off, too. “Can't argue with that. Want me to reactivate the drone?”

The lift surged, slowed, and the doors hissed open with the soft _ding_ that seemed to be universal to that sort of device. “Not really,” Keith said, stepping out. “It won't be able to get at us, and it's the shields on it that are the problem, not the 'bot itself. I'm fine with letting it stand there.”

Which it did as they passed it on the way to the ladder, radiating invisible forces that strummed across their sixth senses like dry twigs over guitar strings. It didn't look or feel any less creepy from the ceiling. Keith slid back into the shallow end with a sigh, noting that the water was still just slightly warmer than it should be. He was going to oversleep tomorrow morning, he just knew it, and would wind up fighting a huge space battle in his pajamas.

His thoughts were interrupted when a damp towel suddenly flopped over his head. “What--?”

“Just remembering a different time I did this,” Pidge said, lowering herself into the water. “In case of infatuation, I thought... well... did you want a blindfold?”

Keith snorted and lifted a corner of the wet cloth, raising an eyebrow at her. “Kinky.”

“Keith,” she growled, blushing again.

He tossed the towel up onto the deck, where it landed with an unromantic _splat._ “Nah, I'm kidding. Just do it, and keep your mind on the project.”

Pidge glanced down at her hands. “Okay, here goes nothing. If it makes you feel any better about it, I feel really weird doing this.”

He did have nice ears, though, she thought to herself as she felt for the soft, raised areas behind them. His nerve-knots were smaller than the Ghamparva Captain's had been, but it seemed that they were no less sensitive. Keith's habitual scowl softened as she rubbed them gently, his eyes losing their focus and going dreamy. She'd never really been this close to his face while paying attention, and started noticing things that she'd missed entirely on those previous occasions. The faintly exotic cast of his features, for one—Galra tended to be more angular around the cheekbones and chin than most Humans were, and Keith's were starting to reflect that. The new growth of eyebrow fuzz looked more like fur than hair, and was purple-black instead of the deep black that some mongoloid ancestor had given him. His eyes, already large, dark, and striking, now had a thin ring of gold around the iris; entirely unhuman, but very, very right for Keith. And... oh, god, she had forgotten how soft his hair was, brushing over her hands. Well, Lizenne had said that he might start manifesting traits from his mother's side of the family...

That included the long limbs and powerful musculature in the torso, she was suddenly aware. Pidge yanked her emotions back under control with an effort, and visualized the Spike of Hantis. Keith's skin warmed perceptibly under her fingers as he responded, conjuring up a bright ribbon of purifying flame. It curled through their other sight like a ribbon-dancer's veils, but could not bind. The invisible barrier was still there, thinner, but still present. She could feel the edge of Keith's frustration, but Pidge was encouraged. The ear-rub was working, but not quite enough.

She increased the pressure of her fingers, and felt the barrier shiver beneath it even as his gold-ringed eyes glazed and his strong arms came around to hold her close against him. His features softened further, his eyes seeming to glow. _Oh, god, he's so pretty,_ she thought, and, on impulse, leaned in to kiss that pretty mouth of his. It was soft, and sweet, and he responded to her kiss with a sudden instinctive intensity that made her mind dissolve into a cloud of happy glitter.

Keith detonated. That was the only word for it. The barrier came down with a crash and the ribbon of flame snapped tight around the Spike of Hantis, which took off like a rocket all by itself. Far below on the floor, something went _boom,_ and the water around them was abruptly a good deal warmer. It took them both a moment to remember which way was up, but when they looked in that direction, the drone was lying in pieces in the center of a large round scorch mark on the floor. Suddenly tired and slightly peckish again, but—and this was the important part—not in possession of even a small headache, Pidge grinned. “Well, that worked.”

Keith vented a breathless laugh and nuzzled at her neck, which she found incredibly endearing. “If I were wearing socks, you would have knocked them off just now. Was that your first kiss?”

Pidge laid her head on his shoulder, noting that the fine, curling hairs along the nape of his neck were purple-black too. She could remember all of the school dances that she'd passed off with mild scorn, how she had preferred digging into textbooks rather than panting after the football jocks and pop singers as her peers had done, and wondered now if she'd been missing out on something. “Yup.”

“Mine, too,” Keith admitted. After a moment, he muttered, “Worth the wait. Think we can do that again?”

She giggled. “What, the kissing or the shield-cracking? We blew up the drone.”

“Both,” he said, giving her a squeeze. “We're gonna need the practice if we want to avoid blowing up someone's ship.”

Pidge giggled again. “Maybe later. We're both pooped out, and your mom is going to get suspicious if she has to hex too many of those. She's already starting to drop hints about wanting grandchildren, and if she finds out what we're doing right now...”

Keith muttered something that Pidge recognized as a slightly mispronounced Galra swearword. “Not quite ready for that yet,” he sighed, and rested his chin on the top of her head. “This is okay, though. For just a little longer.”

Pidge was in perfect agreement with that.

“No, Lance.”

“Aw, but Shiro...”

“ _No,_ Lance,” Shiro said firmly. “I don't care if he has the articulation for it. I don't care if it will help with getting their attention. Giant battle robots do not twerk.”

“Look, I didn't have time to make him a pair of pants that would fit. We just don't have enough fabric to--”

“ _No,_ Lance.”

Hunk chortled. “Go with the heroic posturing instead, pal. I figure that Voltron can flex like a pro, but Yellow's telling me that if there's so much as one little butt-waggle out of you, she's gonna go on strike.”

“ _I can't take you people anywhere,”_ Allura put in from the Castle, making the others laugh.

Shiro grinned and settled himself a little deeper into the Lion's pilot seat. He'd won the toss for the battle by virtue of the fact that he'd actually gotten Zaianne to yield during the last training session, and Lizenne had checked him over and pronounced him to be healthy enough. The team was elated, and it was making a certain blue Paladin more than a little silly. He didn't mind. Word from Jasca had come through that the Imperial destructor fleet was on the move, complete with planet-buster. Ironically, that thing was what made their plan feasible in the first place. The monstrous destroyer could only move in relatively short hops before it needed refueling, and the fleet's progress was necessarily slow because of it. The Galra knew damned well that if they left the thing behind, it would be attacked immediately. Tough though it was, the great Tarzeroth-class ship was not invulnerable, and it had to have a large and watchful escort around it at all times.

Shiro patted the Lion's control beams, feeling Black's eagerness to face that challenge. Speaking of that... “Hey, Keith, Pidge? Did you two ever figure out how to combine your powers?”

Surprisingly, Pidge giggled, and Keith sounded just a little subdued when he answered, “Yeah, I think that we can bring the shields down from a distance now. We tried it out on three of the hex-'bots, and blew the shields off of two of those from halfway across the Castle.”

Something about his tone made Lance suspicious. “That's great, Keith, but just how did you two make the breakthrough?”

“Um...”

Pidge could _hear_ Keith blushing. “Not important right now, Lance. Any updates from Jasca, Allura, and have you found that wormhole yet?”

“ _Not yet,”_ Allura replied. _“It really is well-hidden. Zaianne's scouting around for it now. Jasca says that the Empire fleet has stopped to refuel the planet-buster at the Oinipru Station in orbit around Phesphar. It'll be a little while before we make our move. If we time it right, we may be able to force them to bring it here in one long jump; this system's station won't be able to service it, which will essentially trap the thing here.”_

“Yeah, but it'll still be able to fight,” Pidge said, remembering the battle that had crippled the _Quandary._ “Those big guns are a little sloppy where it comes to small targets, but they have a lot of range, and the blasts are so big that they're hard to dodge. Just one shot can turn a planet into Weblum kibble, guys. Keith and I will take it over as soon as we're in range.”

“Fine with me,” Hunk said, looking out over the dusty stretch of loose space junk that made up most of the Nanthral Dwarf Cluster. “Just how long is your range, anyway?”

Pidge frowned. “I'm not sure. We never got around to measuring it while I was on the _Quandary._ I'll know when we're close enough. Getting that close will be the hard part.”

“ _And getting away,”_ Zaianne's voice cut in. _“I've found the wormhole. Yantilee's gethexite smuggler is an expert pilot, team. Stand by for coordinates.”_

The Paladins studied the image that Zaianne sent them, and Keith let out a long, admiring whistle. The wormhole itself looked like a ring of fire and was so close to one of the white dwarf stars that was hard to tell apart from the star's own prominences. Between the active surface and the gravitational forces, getting through that shimmering anomaly would require great care and precision. The Captain had been right, though; anyone trying to cram a fleet into it would lose most of his ships into the star.

“ _Yes, we see it,”_ Coran said judiciously. _“Nice little mousehole, isn't it? The only way that a fleet could get through that would be slowly, and one at a time. Too many all at once would collapse it, perhaps permanently, leaving anyone stuck inside completely lost, or even wiped from existence entirely!”_

Shiro hissed. “We've already done that once, and I'd prefer not to do it again. Will it take the Castle, the _Chimera,_ and Voltron in one go?”

Coran hummed thoughtfully. _“Yes, I'd say that it should be able to bear that kind of traffic, especially if the Lions were to disengage before entering. Not many more than that, though, and nothing big.”_

“ _More to the point, can you close it behind us?”_ Zaianne asked. _“I would prefer not to be followed.”_

“ _Madame!”_ Coran protested, sounding genuinely shocked. _“Absolutely not! Well, yes, we could, but it isn't done to disrupt cosmic rarities like this! They're protected by law, as a matter of fact; Allura's great-great-great grandfather had a fondness for odd bits of anomalous space, and decreed them to be inviolable! It has been strictly illegal to so much as flick breadcrumbs into a singularity for over eight hundred decaphebes—prior to the last ten thousand, anyway—and nobody can tell me that it wasn't a good ruling. It certainly cut down on the number of interdimensional monsters coming by to complain about trespassing, I can tell you.”_

Zaianne wasn't impressed. _“And if collapsing the wormhole means the difference between life and death?”_

Coran sniffed. _“It didn't to the King, I can tell you that.”_

“ _He's dead. So is his law. You are here and now, and I am speaking of your own personal life or death,”_ Zaianne pointed out.

Coran made a sound of grudging concession.  _“Oh, all right, yes. But if his angry ghost comes back to scold you for the desecration of a natural wonder, don't come crying to me.”_

They heard Zaianne humph haughtily, and were sure that she was about to tell him that she hadn't run crying to anyone since early childhood, but a new voice cut in before she could do so. _“They're on the move again, people,”_ Jasca's slightly tinny voice cut in tensely, _“and from the sound of Phesphar's local comm traffic, good riddance. That planet-buster is an unbelievable power-hog, and the commander of that armada sailed off without paying.”_

Lizenne sighed. _“And the native Thriani people will wind up footing the bill, as usual. Damn. They're already in decline, too. I'll have a word with the Olkari and the Beronites later. I've met a few Thrianis, and I don't want to lose them to someone else's greed.”_

“ _Noted and logged,”_ Jasca said helpfully, _“and transmitted. Zarkon won't be able to exploit them for much longer, trust me on that! The destructor fleet's still on the same heading; they're taking the easy route and sticking close to that ugly behemoth of theirs. I'd say that they'll be within spitting distance of the Nanthral Cluster in about forty-five doboshes. It would have been less, but the planet-buster will have to make another pit stop at Clossine. I should let you listen to some of its escorting ships—they're being driven crazy by the slow progress.”_

Shiro smiled. “Well, we could always liven things up for them a little. How far is Clossine from here? Are we within the planet-buster's range?”

Jasca chuckled. _“I see what you're planning there. Yes, barely. If Voltron's willing to make gross faces at that little miner's rig of a station just as they're topping off at Clossine, I'll make sure that our foes get some really good visuals.”_

“ _That would be very kind of you, Jasca,”_ Allura replied. _“Just say when.”_

“ _Will do.”_

Shiro leaned his head back against his seat and pulled in a long, calming breath. It wouldn't be long now. Black rumbled soothingly in the back of his mind, lending him courage. Shiro smiled at this vote of confidence and relaxed, listening to his team chatter back and forth over their tactics. Even with Pidge's and Keith's aetheric breakthrough, it was going to be a stiff fight. Reflexively, he checked on the positions of their two support ships, both of which were parked at a safe distance from their escape route, and well-concealed in the white dwarf star's corona. The one problem with the Castle's Teludav system, he mused, was that it was slow, and it didn't like being crowded or getting shot at. Having an instantaneous, ready-made exit was a very good thing, in his opinion. He was wondering whether or not he should ask Hunk if he could streamline the Castle's drive a little when Jasca pinged them again.

“ _Time, people. Go scare some miners.”_

Shiro nodded and gripped the control beams. “Thanks, Jasca. Okay, team, let's get this party started.”

Several things happened in quick succession that in later years would be of great interest to historians, tacticians, military commanders, chaos theorists, and movie producers, all of whom would spend many hours discussing them; indeed, many had careers that were made or broken by their observations. Conspiracy theorists and theologians would spin wonderful stories and myths around a period of time that took less than thirty minutes to pass, and the Paladins themselves, along with their families and friends, would laugh at them all and write memoirs that many had trouble believing. It couldn't possibly have been so simple...

…But it was.

The first thing that happened was that old Dithrak Sork'Taln plodded back to his seat in the Nanthral Station's control tower with a fresh cup of hot miska. It was Third Shift and very late into it, when everyone of a nocturnal bent was up early to steal a march on the diurnal types, who were pulling long hours to get to all of the good ore before the nocturnes came out to play. Dithrak would have been tucked up asleep in his bunk by preference, but he'd drawn the short straw again. It wasn't that the late shift was boring, because it generally wasn't. Oh, no, boredom was a rare and precious commodity at any hour among this mixed gang of rough characters. Between the early risers and the creatures of the night, there was always someone about to make some idiot mistake. Always some emergency, always someone doping themselves stupid on the narcotic of choice, always some twit getting overeager in their search for that one rock that would make them rich. Not that any such rock had ever been turned up without being stolen from the guy who'd actually found it, and they were plenty rare to begin with. Dithrak himself had searched for that sovereign stone for sixty years before giving it up and opting for a more modest but much easier life as a station manager. Still... the dream had been nice, and he missed it now and again.

He glowered at the view on the tower's screens. Nothing but the same old scenery. Some of the miners had been chatting about a tidbit of news that Bons MikMak Phassi had scraped up from somewhere, that something really unusual was going to happen sometime soon. Dithrak was skeptical about that. Bons was a good miner, but he'd done a little too much gloshni in his tween years and believed just about any damned thing that his smuggler buddies told him, no matter how weird. On the other hand, Guik-Morx was a Cuebora, and they were all as sane and sober as saints, and she was taking him seriously for once. Dithrak didn't really know what to think, except that it was time to do the hourly scans. He thumped down into his chair, grunted habitually at the thin padding under his bony rump, and laid his hands on the controls.

“All right, you brick-chippers,” he growled into the comms, “heads up. Hazard scans commencing on my mark. Anyone ignoring me gets what they gets, and our insurance don't cover stupid.”

The usual buzz of acknowledgments and cheerful insults came back over the line as he calibrated his instruments. It was essential that the towermaster on duty ran hazard checks every hour, on the hour, for anything that might come whizzing in out of the night to put a hole in someone's rig. Oh, the mining craft all had hazard sensors as well, but not so long-range as the Station did, nor did they have someone on hand all the time with nothing better to do than keep an eye on them. Or were willing to waste time on maintaining their equipment, for that matter.

“Mark,” said Dithrak, and began the scans.

“ _Anything?”_ one of the miners asked in a preoccupied tone, and Dithrak could hear the high hum of a cutting laser in the background.

“Nah,” he replied. “Sectors One through Seven are clear. Cloud of small stuff passing through Sector Eight through Twelve, upper east region, heading toward Third Sun. Sector Thirteen's got nothing but hydrogen and a little grit. That big lump of ice that Tlellan promised he'd haul over to the water-processing plant's still cluttering up Sector Fourteen. Gonna do something about that, Tlellan?”

“ _Yeah, sorry, got a good chunk of gethexite here,”_ Tlellan replied. _“I'll get to it in a bit.”_

“ _I'll get it,”_ one of the other miners said. _“How about Sector Twenty?”_

“Still full of high-velocity junk from when that patrol cruiser took a shortcut through the Pebble Belt,” Dithrax humphed sourly; he hated bad pilots. “Sectors Twenty-One through Thirty-Three are clear, though; same goes for Fifteen through Nineteen. Might be worth seeing what that fool might have knocked loose. Sector Thirty-Four... uh.”

Dithrax gaped in horrified amazement at what had just appeared in his screens, unable to speak or move. After a long pause, one of the miners asked, _“Um, Dithrax? Anything out there?”_

Dithrax swallowed hard. “Giant robot.”

“ _What?!”_

“Giant robot, coming in fast. That's Voltron. Kuphorosk's Blades, that's Voltron.”

The comm chatter erupted into shouts of surprise and panic that grew and swelled like an oncoming thunderstorm. Dithrax could only sit and stare at the approaching battle robot until a roar from one of his best miners jolted him out of his reverie. _“Dithrax, sound the alarms and get the hell out of there! We've got a huge military fleet only half a quadrant away, and half the crew's shouting at them for help already. They'll be crowding in here any minute now, and how long do you expect us to last when they start shooting?_ Move _, you old fool!”_

Dithrax shuddered, triggered every disaster beacon the station had, and then took one more glance up at the screens. He almost froze up again, for it was _right there,_ right outside the actual control room, staring directly at him with a blazing yellow eye that was larger than he was, set in a cold, hard face of the sort that he'd last seen on a man looking to do as much damage to everything around him as he could possibly manage. Dithrax let out a thin squeal of terror and ran for the shuttle bay as fast as he could go.

(“Booga-booga-booga!” Lance said, making the others laugh.

“ _Lance, really,”_ Allura chided from the Castle.)

At that moment, in orbit around Clossine, Commander Arkkax glowered at the planet-buster and cursed the short-sighted fool who'd designed the things, and then cursed all of the other short-sighted fools who'd never bothered to upgrade them. He was used to getting where he needed to be in a matter of hours or minutes, not days, and the slow pace of their progress was maddening. He was very tempted to simply leave that wallowing, inefficient, ugly ship behind and forge on ahead, but his second-in-command had actually fought Beronites before this, and refused to let him.  _ Stay with the thing, _ the older man had told him, tapping the electronic lens that had taken the place of his left eye.  _ There is  _ nothing  _ delicate or fragile about a Beronite when it's got its blood up, and they'll soon be drinking yours if you underestimate them. _

He had pointed out that this was going to be a space battle if there was to be a battle at all, and he had been told that it didn't make a damned bit of difference. Only prudence and a prophecy laid down by a major religious figure had kept the conquest of the Beronite end of the Selphuro Sector from becoming one of the bloodiest wars in Empire history.  _ Yes, _ the Empire would have won in the end, but it would have been a lot nastier. Arkkax trusted the man, and therefore consoled himself with muttering curses under his breath every time they had to stop to refuel.

He had just finished comparing the planet-buster unfavorably to a small, marsh-dwelling animal native to Palabek that was notorious for its filthy habits and putrid body odor when one of his comm officers spoke up. “Sir! We've just received a distress call from the Nanthral Dwarf Cluster; there's a mining station there, and they're yelling for help.”

Arkkax grunted disdainfully. “And why are they calling us, rather than the nearest Garrison fleet?”

The officer brought up the image that had come along with the message. “Because of that, sir. Should we alert the Emperor?”

Arkkax hissed in shock at the sight of the very large and colorful robot. He had his orders already and intended to carry them out, but there were numerous Imperial Decrees that demanded that he drop everything and go after Voltron instead. He also knew how very dangerous it could be for a commander who did not know with absolute clarity the will of his sovereign. “We should. The Beronite worlds aren't going anywhere. Open a channel to the Center; the Emperor must know.”

Zarkon was glowering ominously at the petitioner standing before him, and the fool didn't even seem to be aware of how close he was to annihilation. A number of the High Houses had not liked the news that a very rich section of the Empire had been slated for demolition, a section that no few of them had been exploiting for their own gain, and had scrambled to put together an official complaint... and to assign an official complainer. This was one of the young scions of House Barchax'Sor, who had come armored in his own arrogance and self-righteousness to bleat in an annoyingly nasal voice about how the destruction of the Beronites would disrupt the Empire's economy for Sectors around, and how the effort was drawing the Empire's defenses away from its most vital territories, leaving them open to attack by impertinent extremist groups. Zarkon did not like having his decisions challenged even at the best of times. This was not the best of times, and would shortly become worse for this particular irritant.

His shoulder twinged at him again, and shadows flickered at the corners of his eyes. He'd had so many of this sort of audience play out before him over the years, so very many, and despite the dismal success rate, they still kept trying. They never learned!

_Of course they don't,_ Gyrgan's voice rumbled sympathetically out of the past, and Zarkon's right hand felt the weight of a cup of horath that had been drained and discarded over ten millennia ago.  _There isn't anything that those arrogant_ klephas _hate more than admitting that they might not be infallible, and they'll push it as hard as they can every time. Ever notice how courtiers and ministers like it best when a king can be easily persuaded? There's a lot of that sort of thing throughout history, where the noble Houses do their best to see to it that they get a king who'll agree with everything they say._

Zarkon glanced down at a cup of horath that was not there, and that just soured his temper further.

“--And in conclusion, your Majesty,” the High Houses' representative stated pompously, “your decision to disrupt large portions of Empire space for no better reason than to make an example is insupportable. The Matriarchs simply won't stand for it. It is not too late to call off the operation.”

There was a snort from his side. Haggar, at least, was here and now, solid and real, and if anything was even less likely to care what the Matriarchs thought. He knew, furthermore, that she was already in the planning stages for the next Robeast, and would need a suitable candidate to provide the motivating element. He drew in a breath to inform this little fool that he'd just earned himself that honor when a warning tone sounded nearby.

“What?” he growled.

“Top-Priority channel, your Majesty,” one of his aides replied promptly, “from Commander Arkkax.”

Zarkon's mood lifted slightly as a certain premonition bloomed in the back of his mind. “Put it through.”

A screen popped into existence before him, and Commander Arkkax's image immediately offered the proper bow and salute that a subordinate owed his Emperor—a courtesy that the representative of the High Houses had failed to give.

“ _Emperor Zarkon,”_ Arkkax said without preamble, _“Voltron has appeared in the Nanthral Dwarf Cluster and is menacing an Empire-owned mining operation. We are currently at Clossine, and are in a position, potentially, to capture it. Your orders, Majesty?”_

“Do so,” Zarkon commanded, “divert the entire armada if you must to secure it. Capture the Paladins as well—I want them alive.”

“ _It will be done, your Majesty,”_ Arkkax responded with commendable obedience. _“Vrepet Sa.”_

“ _Vrepet Sa.”_ Zarkon sat back in his throne when the connection cut off, much pleased by this. “Haggar,” he said quietly, “is the Robeast ready for deployment?”

“It is, my Lord,” she said with an anticipatory smile. “All it requires is the motivating element.”

Zarkon made a satisfied sound in the back of his throat and eyed the petitioner thoughtfully. “I wonder... would a bit of blue-blooded spite do as well as a pirate's untrustworthiness?”

“Admirably, my Lord.”

Zarkon motioned with a hand, and the representative squealed in protest as a pair of Sentries laid hold of him. “Your Majesty, please, no! I have done nothing!”

Zarkon narrowed his eyes dangerously at the frightened man. “On the contrary. You have succeeded in annoying me, and your fate will be made very clear to your superiors. They hold their high status only because I permit it. My will and my authority are absolute, and my orders will not be disputed; all who would oppose me will be destroyed. I will thin the ranks of the High Houses as well, when and as I find it necessary. This would not be the first time that I have ordered such a thing, nor will it be the last. Ready the Robeast, Haggar. I will not lose Voltron this time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That Zarkon, right? SUCH a sterling example of fairness and goodwill! The very epitome of a mild and just ruler!
> 
> Also...POLL TIME!!! *honks kazoo*
> 
> As Spanch and I continue to put our heroes through more and more weird shit that we swear is essential for saving the universe, we have come to a bit of an impasse, one that caused massive debates, three bouts of Full-Contact Rock Scissors Paper, and a ferocious but ultimately fruitless match of Zero-G Obstacle Course Uno. Exhausted and out of both instant banana muffin mix and rapid-fire staplers, we now turn to you, our lovely readers.
> 
> Later in the story, Shiro will be in a situation where he has a massive and catastrophic mix between a nightmare of the arena and an oracular vision, causing a rather dramatic panic attack. During which, it would be a very bad idea for all five of his fellow Paladins to rush in to help at once. (Military training + gladitorial survival skills + sheer terror = broken everything) So the question is, who should be the one to approach him?
> 
> Please tell us your thoughts, and as always, THANK YOU for your kindness, your patience, and every bit of your encouragement!


	13. A Really Big Fight!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, no points for originality on today's chapter title.
> 
> A big THANK YOU to everyone who gave their opinions and ideas last chapter, we've taken them all into consideration and though we can't use them all at the same time, a lot of them gave us ideas for later events. We really appreciate you all!

Chapter 13: A Really Big Fight!

Elsewhere in the universe, Lotor ducked beneath the sparring drone's swing, danced nimbly away from the following slash, and then attacked, slicing the machine open from shoulder to hip rotator. It staggered away and collapsed in a sparking heap, leaving Lotor the victor; a paltry triumph, but every little bit helped. It only whetted his appetite for another bout with the Paladins, which he considered to be long overdue. Lotor hadn't had a real challenge since he'd faced them in person, and he was bored.

A footstep by the door made him look around to see Tilwass entering, and that improved his mood somewhat as well—he'd told the man not to disturb him unless something interesting happened. “Yes?” he asked.

Tilwass touched his fist to his breast in the usual salute. “All of the disabled Ghamparva ships are back online, sir, and just in time. You were right about Voltron. We just got a message from one of your informants, an asteroid miner in the Nanthral Cluster. Voltron's over there right now, looking over their support station as if measuring it out for dinner.”

Lotor bared his teeth in a predatory smile. “Very good. We are in range, aren't we?”

“Easily,” Tilwass said, but looked worried. “So is that big armada your dad sent to smash up Beros, though. Are you really sure that you want to crash that party? That part of space is going to be awfully crowded soon.”

Lotor humphed. “Father has already ordered them to attack?”

Tilwass nodded. “First thing. No Hoshinthra have been sighted anywhere near there, though.”

Lotor slid his sword into its sheath impatiently. “She will either be there or she will not. We will be there regardless of her movements. They cannot object to having our aid if we offer it, and our numbers will serve to trap Voltron there more effectively. Indeed, we will concentrate on taking the support ships. The Lions may have an impressive range, but they do not have stardrives of their own; without the Castle, they will have nowhere to go... and I will want to have a talk with the Rogue Witch as well. The Altean girl stabbed my father twice with that woman's personal weapon, and he has not been quite the same since. I wish to know more about such things.”

Tilwass's eyes widened. “That's magic, sir, big, serious magic. Smart men don't poke into that sort of thing.”

Lotor gave him a tolerant look and swept past him, forcing him to scramble to keep up. “It is a weapon that may be turned to better uses. Much knowledge has been lost to the past, knowledge that could aid us well in the future. I will have it, Tilwass. Tell the fleet that we are heading to battle at last, and a battle that we cannot help but win. There is, after all, only one Voltron, and the ships of the Empire are legion.”

Tilwass sighed. “Yessir.”

Hunk fidgeted. The mining station was empty, and all of the miners had beaten a hurried retreat out of the Cluster; there was nothing around at the moment but empty space with rocks in it. It didn't take much for him to get bored at the best of times, and now, when boredom threatened to become a fond and distant memory very shortly, it was even worse. He scratched his nose and succumbed to temptation.

“A hundred bottles of beer on the wall, a hundred bottles of beer...” he sang, and grinned as protests started coming in from the other Lions. “Take one down and pass it around, ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall.”

“Hunk, don't make me come over there,” Pidge growled.

“Everyone's a critic,” he sighed, remembering another classic learned on those bus trips to and from summer camp. “How about this one? I woke up Sunday morning, I looked upon the wall, the bedbugs and the beetles were having a game of ball!”

Lance let out a laugh, but Shiro groaned.  _“Hunk...”_

Lance chortled. “Not that one, huh, Shiro? Well, how about this one?” He dug into his memory for a camp bus ditty that had been frowned upon since well before his grandmother had ridden in one, and had therefore been passed down by generations of irreverent children. “Ding-dong dong, dong-dong, a-ding-dong! Yo' mamma don't wear no socks! I saw when she took 'em off--”

“Lance, so help me, I will come down there and pop your head off,” Keith threatened.

“Could be... could be worse, Keith,” Hunk gasped around his own mirth. “He could be singing 'Little Bunny Foo-Foo'.”

“If he starts, I really will come down there and pop his head off,” Keith stated.

“And I'd like to see you try it!” Lance retorted. “Just because you didn't want to play 'I Spy' again--”

“Guys, stop it,” Shiro said, sounding very put upon. “Nobody is to leave their Lions until we know that we're done fighting for the day. I don't think that you _can_ leave them right now, in any case.”

“ _I'm sure that they'll find a way,”_ Allura said in fatalistic tones.

“ _Save it for later, children,”_ Zaianne added, although she hummed curiously. _“Lance, if we survive this, I will want a full description of what happens when I take my socks off.”_

Lance flinched at her tone. “Well, uh... it's just an old day-camp bus song, it's not really about anyone's actual mother.”

“ _Maybe not, but there are one hundred and thirty-seven different races in the Empire that consider insulting songs about other people's relatives to be very significant,”_ Jasca cut in cheerfully. _“This one sounds good, and I'll want a copy, too. That means that you have to come out of this adventure intact, people—work really hard on that, all right? Your space battle should be here in roughly ten doboshes. Enjoy.”_

“ _Ten doboshes?”_ Coran asked. _“That long?”_

“ _The man in command of the destructor fleet tried to leave five doboshes ago, but the stationmaster threatened to ban him from using them as a refueling point for life if he didn't pay his bill.”_ Jasca cackled appreciatively. _“It's taking him some time to square it with his ship's financial officer, who is having an infarct over the cost. Running a planet-buster is_ expensive, _people!”_

Lance groaned. “Well, what are we going to do until then? Keith won't let us sing, Shiro won't let Voltron dance, nobody wants to play a game, and if I don't do _something,_ I'm going to freak out.”

There was a chuckle from the _Chimera._ _“Pre-battle jitters,”_ Lizenne said lightly, _“I'd have thought that you would be past that by now, Lance. Dealing with them isn't difficult. Is Voltron nervous?”_

Lance blinked. “No.”

“ _Then you don't have to be. Focus on the Lion-bond, Paladins. Rest in it. See through your Lion's eyes and listen through their ears; feel the universe through their senses. You are a part of them, for you are of their pack, and as one you will be ready when the time comes.”_

It was the tone of her voice that did it more than anything else: soft, soothing, and reassuring, the same as she had used for their many aetheric training sessions. For Lance, it was like leaning back into cool water on a hot day, and he felt more than saw the blue energies that flowed around him. Voltron's senses came to him slowly at first, and he soon lost himself in the sheer expanse of them. Voltron could perceive _everything._ He could see every star clearly, and judge to within a quarter of an inch how far away they were. He could hear them singing in a wide range of frequencies, and measure their temperatures; he could feel how their size and mass bent the very fabric of space around them, and the shape, spin, and velocity of every good-sized rock in orbit around them. He could taste their chemical composition, list every element in every stone, and smell the chemical makeup of the dust and gas that floated like perfume in the void. Oddly enough, it smelled a little like raspberries. He could feel the miner's station, too, inside and out, and was mildly amused by the hidden distillery that someone had built into one of the parts storage closets; even from this distance, he recognized the sharp smell of horath. It was comforting to know that some things were truly universal. He could feel the Castle as well, and the _Chimera;_ they burned in his augmented vision with the white-gold light of living ships, and could even sense the tiny, self-contained world of the envirodeck, like a many-colored pearl within its shell. It was all so beautiful that the near future no longer mattered.

After a time, he started seeing something else. The fabric of space was starting to ripple in the same way that water did when something large and fast came up from below, and there were faint but growing shadows in the star-speckled murk. Lance felt the others nearby noticing them as well, and began to calculate the number and mass of those oncoming objects. Enemy ships, all large, some very large, and one _really_ big one, all coming out _over there_ in the standard array, arriving in... three... two... one...

Voltron was moving before the first ship had reentered normal space, almost without the conscious volition of his Paladins. _Han shot first,_ Lance heard Keith say, and grinned as they opened fire on the nearest ship's command deck before it had time to get its shields up.

The ship staggered, its control center erupting in livid flames, and tumbled heavily away. The other ships were quick to open fire, however, and Hunk and Lance soon had their hands full with keeping Voltron from being blown to pieces. Drone fighters were flooding out of their parent craft in swarms, and space was soon thick with cannon fire.

“That's a lot of ships, guys,” Hunk observed, whirling them out of the way of a burst of ion beams and ducking under a heavy cruiser. “A _lot_ of ships. I'm starting to really miss Yantilee and the Fleet, and even the Doom Moose.”

Keith took the opportunity to manifest Voltron's sword, and used it to open up a long gash from amidships to stern, disabling the warship. “Yeah. We've still got an advantage, though.”

“Keith's right, Shiro agreed. “Look at them! They're crowding in too tightly to maneuver properly, and most of them can't get a clear shot at us. They also don't want to destroy us—Zarkon won't like it if they haul in the Lions too broken up to use. Keep us moving fast and random so that they stay packed in tight, but let's get to that planet-buster as soon as we can. Keith, Pidge, think you can take that thing?”

Pidge hummed the short, jarring monotone that meant that she was testing the strength of the enemy's aetheric shields. “I think so. They haven't upgraded any since last time, and I can see where to hit them. How 'bout you, Keith?”

Keith stabbed a passing fighter and slashed through the drive section of a light cruiser. “Yeah. It's not exactly one of the Castle's hex-bots, but I can see what we need to do. Actually getting close enough to the planet-buster's going to be tricky, though.”

They couldn't help but agree. The huge Tarzeroth-Class ship had been moved to the rear of the fleet, simply to keep it out of the way. Despite its huge offensive power, such craft were not good at hitting small, agile targets; Lotor himself had proven that, and the destructor fleet's commander was not interested in repeating the Prince's mistakes. They would have to either go around that fleet or through it, and that was a tall order even for Voltron.

Hunk jammed his bayard into its slot and activated the scattergun, allowing Voltron to mow down a swarm of fighters. “Know what I think, guys? I think that we need an escort. Practice your mojo on a few of these big guys and make them give us some cover.”

To their surprise, Pidge let out an embarrassed giggle, and Keith said, no less bashfully, “Um...”

Lance had come from a very large family, with a great many teen-aged siblings and cousins, and he had witnessed a very great deal of fast talking whenever his mother or aunts had discovered signs of hanky-panky among them and their various significant others. Something about his teammates' tones of voice informed him that Keith and Pidge had been using some unconventional methods for learning how to combine their talents. Scowling at his communicator, Lance channeled his mother at her most suspicious as he asked, “Guys? What have you two been doing while the rest of us weren't looking?”

“Oh, God,” Shiro muttered over Keith's irritated growl. “Lance, cool it, if it gets us through this mess alive, the method doesn't matter. Hunk's right, though, we could definitely use an escort. Pick us a few nice big ones, Pidge.”

Pidge humphed. “All right, all right. Hunk, stop laughing and get us a little closer to... hmm. Those three heavy destroyers over there. Keith, if we do this right, we might be able to catch all three with one arrow.”

Keith swung the sword through a passing shoal of fighters, a timely boost from Lance whirling the great battle robot out of reach of their ion lances and leaving a trail of fire and debris behind him. Glancing up at the trio of gigantic ships with his other sight, he could see why she'd chosen those three. Their aetheric shielding was, as always, a thick coating of writhing, nigh-impenetrable lines of energy that resembled tangled dry brush in his inner eye, the one weak spot in constant motion through the morass. It was just that in those three, something odd was happening.

“Pidge?” he asked, moving Voltron's sword arm for a better view as Pidge used the shield to block an ion blast that they had no room to dodge. “Is it just my imagination, or are the shields on those ships trying to synch up?”

“It's all the same program,” Pidge answered, deflecting another ion blast off to the right, where it cut a light cruiser in half. “All of the shields work in the same way—they're basically clones from a single template. If we could get this armada to pack in any tighter than they are already, they'd all sync up, and it's a pretty good bet that we could blow all of their shields apart at once with a single strike. Hah. I really could steal the whole navy for the team.”

“I'll settle for three,” Shiro told them, and then paused as a worrying premonition wormed its way through to his consciousness. There was a feeling of _pressure_ from two nearby areas of space, the same sort of pressure that an incoming wave exerted on a swimmer. Something very large and singular. Something very large and plural. Both very powerful. Both coming in very fast.

“Pidge?” he said, “Keith? Make us some friends. Now.”

Pidge, hearing the Oracle's certainty in those words, summoned the Spike of Hantis in her mind, even as a hissing streak of fire hissed past her to wind around the shaft. Here in the Lions, their bond hot and strong, she felt his consciousness brush against hers; just to be sure that they got the Arrow right, she slipped in a quick kiss in passing. He flared a bright gold-edged scarlet as the ribbon snapped tight around the Spike, and suddenly the Arrow was gone... and the three targeted ships bucked hard as their aetheric shields failed all at once. Pidge laughed and reached for the vulnerable warships, making them hers.

“Pidge, I felt that,” Lance said accusingly, although a big grin was spreading itself across his face. “Did you really just kiss him?”

“Not now, Lance,” Keith said, drawing another burning line through a long string of fighters.

“You did, too, kiss him!” Lance laughed. “Right through the Lion-bond! Does your mom know about this, Keith? And what is Pidge's mom going to say about this?”

“Not now, Lance,” Pidge said, although not without a qualm or two. Her mom still had her great-great grandfather's shotgun somewhere...

“ _I know now,”_ Zaianne said ominously from the Castle. _“Get to that planet-buster, and fast! You've surprised the armada, but that won't last, and they won't hesitate to fire on suborned ships. Get going!”_

Lance boosted hard, but he wasn't quite done yet. “How come I haven't gotten a kiss yet? We're all supposed to be bonding together, right? I'm owed a kiss!”

“Not now, Lance,” Keith and Pidge said together.

Hunk blew Lance a great smacking _“mwah!”_ that made his teammate laugh. “See? See? At least Hunk understands.”

“ _Look out, team!”_ Coran shouted suddenly, _“I'm getting some odd signals--”_

The battlefield was suddenly a very great deal more crowded. Shiro recognized the newly-arrived fleet by its flagship, which he had seen not so long ago fleeing from the reaching graspers of a gigantic red-scaled space monster, and by the thirty Ghamparva craft that roared out of the flagship's bays to do battle.

“ _Quiznek!”_ he heard Lance shout. “Him again!”

Hunk wasn't any happier about the interruption. “Somebody should oughtta tell that jerk to take a number already. We're busy!”

“And not a Doodlebug or a Doom Moose in sight,” Shiro agreed. “Well, guys, let's see if we can grab a few of those and make them help out this time, and make it quick—here they come.”

Lance wasn't the only one offended by the unexpected gate-crasher. “What are you doing here, Prince?” Commander Arkkax demanded angrily, trying to keep one eye on the giant battle robot and the other on the smirking face of the young royal on the screen. “You're supposed to be hunting the  _Night Terror,_ not Voltron. Get out of here and let me do my job!”

Lotor narrowed his eyes at the angry officer. He knew that his own status had taken a hit or two from his recent failures, but enough to be treated like an unwanted nuisance by a mere Commander? He couldn't let that stand. “I go where I please, Arkkax, and it is well-known that the Hoshinthra Warleader has allied herself with Voltron and the Ghost Fleet. Furthermore, seeking Voltron's capture is the duty of every Galra in the Empire, not least mine! I have come close to taking the Lions before this; all that stopped me the last time was an unexpected space monster. I do not anticipate that another will come to thwart me this time.”

Arkkax growled angrily, but he didn't really have a choice. Lotor was still Crown Prince, and his fleet would admittedly be of help in containing Voltron. “Very well. Perhaps if--”

“Sir!” one of the pilots yelped suddenly, and pointed at the screen. “Something just jumped in... is that a Robeast?”

Both Lotor and Arkkax jerked around to stare at the complex silvery shape as it barreled into the fray, heading straight for Voltron with no consideration whatsoever for the Empire ships between them; a light cruiser, unable to get out of its way in time, erupted in flames as the thing sliced right through it.

Lotor snarled a paint-peeling curse and shouted, “No! I will not let that witch cheat me of this. Voltron is mine!”

Arkkax hissed as the connection was cut, knowing full well what would happen to the young fool if his father had heard those words, and what else would happen to him if his blundering about should lose them the capture of the Lions. Arkkax had responsibilities and duties of his own, and he had to get his own fleet into a better position immediately, or Voltron, the Robeast, and Lotor would wind up wrecking half of his ships between them. Barking orders, he set about cutting off any avenue of escape for his foes, be they Galra, monster, or giant robot.

“ _Not_ cool!” Hunk shouted angrily, activating the scattergun again. “We only signed up to fight one overwhelming force, not three! There oughtta be a law about this sort of party-crashing!”

“There is one, Hunk, I looked it up,” Pidge said grimly, bringing the three suborned ships up around Voltron and using their cannons to clear themselves a space. “It's one of Zarkon's, and it basically says 'dogpile on the Lions'. That's what they're doing.”

“Some dogs are meaner than others,” Shiro said, watching the Robeast slash its way through a light cruiser. “This one's going to be a handful, team.”

It certainly was. Haggar must have upgraded her equipment significantly to have produced this creature. It wasn't quite as large as the previous three had been, but it was a good deal more advanced, and far faster and more maneuverable than its predecessors. Even getting a good look at it was difficult; it was long and framy, and shifted its shape every time it changed its vector. It was mostly silver, but it had an intricate webwork of livid pale purple light veining its body, and purple force-blades flickered in and out of existence along its morphic length. Orbiting around the Robeast in a loose spiral were a series of long, slim, mirror-bright crescents that made Shiro think of boomerangs, although when a panicking Galra ship fired on the thing, that surmise changed. The crescents were more forceblade generators, summoning petal-shaped blades within their arcs that flicked out and reduced the ship to hash. The Robeast had rather obviously been designed to come down on its enemies like a ton of cleavers, and from every angle at once, and would destroy whatever came between it and its target. Shiro trusted Voltron's might, but Voltron was ultimately a swordsman, and had a number of weak points that this thing had been specifically engineered to exploit.

“Knife fighter,” Keith said darkly, echoing his thoughts, “and one with a lot more hands than Nasty has. We're in trouble, guys.”

“Yeah,” Shiro said, sizing up the oncoming foe. “Let's spread it around a little bit, and see if we can't get that thing to help us cut a path to the planet-buster.”

“We're still going to focus on that thing?” Lance asked incredulously, boosting them and their purloined escort away from the monster. “I don't know about you, but I'd rather worry about the Robeast.”

Shiro frowned at his rearview screens, watching how the Robeast moved. “We've still got a responsibility to the Beronites, Lance. Without that planet-buster, they'll have a better chance of fighting off the destructor fleet. Besides, if we can take it over and Hunk can improve its aim, I'd like to see how well the Robeast holds up under its fire.”

“Sharp thinking,” Hunk said. “Lance, you dodged a buzzsaw-squid once. Think you can dodge this one?”

Lance cackled and grabbed the control beams. “Watch me.”

Pidge was about to send her three battleships to slow the Robeast down for them, since the huge heavy things weren't capable of the kind of speed and maneuverability that Voltron was, but soon found a reason to keep them close. The Robeast had closed the distance between them with terrible speed, and she was only just barely able to get one of the destroyers between it and them in time. Explosions flowered and huge sheets of hullmetal flew as the monster literally shredded its way through the ship to get at them. Shiro gripped his control beams hard and shoved them forward, boosting Voltron away from the creature as fast as the robot could go; the Robeast pursued with a long, screeching cry of insane wrath that rang through their comms with shiver-inducing shrillness.

“Watching you now, Lance,” Pidge quipped, deflecting another ion burst.

“Not now, Pidge,” Lance snarled back, and hurled Voltron into the narrow gap between two very large warships.

The long spiral of semi-independent crescents flicked out, generating blades of crystallized energy, forcing Lance into a hard swerve to the left to avoid them. The nearby ship could not do so, and lost nearly half of its hull as the blades sliced through it as if it were made of soft butter. Even so, one of the blades slashed close enough to Voltron that Keith had to deflect it with the sword, and the impact knocked them for a loop.

“Not good!” Keith ground out. “This one's strong—really strong. Unless we can spot a weak point on this thing, we might have to cortex-bomb it.”

The others groaned. They'd done that twice before: once to destroy the bramble net, and again to pry Shiro's Quintessence out of the Shirobeast. It had nearly exhausted them both of those times, and in neither of those previous battles did they have such a large audience. “We can't risk it,” Shiro said, fighting for balance, “not with this armada here. We'll have to think of something—look out!”

Voltron whirled, and Pidge brought up the shield just in time; a sleek dark ship had arrowed in and fired a salvo at the Robeast, not all of which hit it. The two stray shots burst against Voltron's shield, and Lance used the force of the impact to give them an extra boost away as the Robeast shrilled its wrath and turned on the intruder.

“That was one of Lotor's Ghamparva ships!” Hunk said, startled. “He's helping us?”

“Don't bet on it,” Pidge said angrily. “He probably wants us for himself. We've kind of been making him look bad, and if he can bring us in instead of letting these other guys pick up the pieces...”

“Instant kudos from his dad. Right,” Hunk growled. “Fine.”

“Assuming that he doesn't decide to topple Zarkon from the throne himself,” Shiro said, looking up at the distant shape of the planet-buster. “Lizenne did say that we might have messed up his mind, and if Lotor knows that Zarkon's not thinking too clearly right now, he may be getting ambitious.”

“ _I can almost guarantee that Zarkon will be thinking exactly that, if he's watching this right now,”_ Lizenne's voice said sharply. _“Which he may well be. This wouldn't be the first time that he's faced challenges from his sons. Get to that planet-buster! Even if you do nothing other than to destroy that one ship, it will very likely be enough.”_

That was all the encouragement that they needed, and Lance and Hunk hurled Voltron toward the distant hulk with everything they had. Voltron responded valiantly, his great core thundering mightily; the warships fired on him, but slow, too slowly to make a solid hit. Pidge and Keith handled sword and shield with unconscious skill, their attention fully focused upon their target, their paired minds reaching out to get a feel for its shields. In the meantime, Shiro picked up the slack; he had noticed that not all of the Ghamparva ships were keeping the Robeast busy, and there were at least twelve of them coming up from behind. A sharp word in Hunk's ear brought up the scattergun again, which persuaded their pursuers to keep their distance. He felt it the instant that his team came within range of the planet-buster, hearing the echo of the aetheric shield's grinding screech through Pidge as she took aim with the Spike of Hantis. A burst of heat and a bonfire's roaring accompanied it, and then it was gone; the planet-buster seemed to shudder a moment later, and its purple running lights turned blue. Pidge whooped in triumph, but her cry ended in a yelp when a hot ion beam glanced off of Voltron's shoulder plating—the Ghamparva ships were catching up, and the Robeast was right behind them.

“Start shooting!” she yelled angrily, “and don't stop until either you've run out of fuel or there aren't any more threats. After that, self-destruct. Do it _now!”_

As if in answer, panels slid back along the massive ship's entire length, and cannons that dwarfed even a flagship's ground into place, and a single massive cannon at the prow emerged, the dark mouth highlighted by a pale lavender glow deep within the barrel.

“Whoa,” Lance muttered as the other guns canted themselves at all angles, seeking targets. “Compensating much?”

The planet-buster fired.

All of local space went a searing white for three long, painful seconds. When that terrible glare faded, the miner's support station was gone, and so were a great many warships. Having been positioned at the rear of Arkkax's destructor fleet, the great Tarzeroth-class ship had been in an excellent position to shoot the entire fleet in the back. The Robeast was still there, however, having drawn up its spiral of forceblades into an overlapping shield, and it could see Voltron very clearly now that the obstructing armada was no longer in the way.

“Scatter!” Arkkax roared at his terrified and much-reduced forces. “Pull back! The Paladins have taken the planet-buster! If the Robeast and the Prince want Voltron that badly, then let them deal with it. Maintain a safe distance—when the fight is over, we will aid whichever one wins out.”

“Sir,” one of his comm officers asked anxiously. “What if Voltron wins?”

Arkkax glared at the robot, which was even now readying itself to do battle with the very angry Robeast. “Then we will send a complete report back to the Center, and the Prince as well, if we are given the opportunity to obtain him. I will not challenge a foe that can defeat both him and a Robeast of that caliber, and I will not answer for the failures of either.”

His remaining ships wasted no time in following his orders; it took time for a planet-buster to recharge its guns, and every second was precious now. Lotor's fleet was still mostly intact, but they had not learned from what had just happened; in fact, they were spreading out into a classic hemisphere formation, which would concentrate their fire on a single target. Arkkax felt a chill run up his spine when they did open fire, though. They weren't aiming at the planet-buster. They were still fixated on Voltron, and on the monster it was facing...

“...And in conclusion, _Not Cool!”_ Hunk shouted, trying to keep Voltron out of the worst of the firestorm with only partial success. Voltron shook and jerked painfully around him with every searing impact, and his only consolation was that the Robeast was taking as many hits as they were. “Holy crap, did nobody ever teach that guy to take a number?”

“Use the planet-buster as cover,” Shiro commanded, “It's too big and heavily-armored to blow up all at once, and we're not keeping it, anyway. If we have to, we can lose the Robeast in the wormhole. We'll try to take it down here, if only to keep Haggar from using it to slice up someone's space station, but if we can't, there are options. How much longer before the 'buster fires again, Pidge?”

“A minute or two,” Pidge snarled, hands dancing over her controls as she tried to take readings and block ion beams at the same time. “The first fleet's taken the hint and backed off. Lotor's hasn't 'cause he's stupid. Did any of those Ghamparva ships survive?”

“Some,” Keith panted, smashing a whirling forceblade aside with the sword, a stunning impact that nearly knocked him out of his seat; something beneath him squeaked, and a distant part of him worried that the heavy hits were starting to knock things loose. “The ones that were chasing us. They're still hanging around, looking for an opening. Don't know about the rest.”

Lance groaned and sent Voltron into a complex dive, ducking under the planet-buster's engine section. “Guys, I don't know how much more of this we can take. Huge battlefleets, _yes;_ giant monsters, _yes;_ super-advanced fighting ships, okay, but all three at once? We're a little outnumbered here.”

The Robeast shrilled again behind them, too close; its blades lashed out to score deep trenches in the planet-buster's hull, and Voltron was forced to duck hard or lose his head. The thing paced them easily over and around the great ship's contours and cannon emplacements, reaching for them with long, lashing, blade-lined whips, slashing with its orbiting blades; while it had shown no indication that it had any long-range weaponry, it didn't seem to need it. It was more of a lattice of tangled lines than anything else, something like a fraying roll of chainlink fencing and something like a mass of bindweed; all of it lethal, and all of it seemingly indestructible. As if that wasn't bad enough, a squadron of sleek dark shapes were following along at a discreet distance, waiting for either of the combatants to make a mistake.

Voltron was just skimming the surface of the ship's hull now, boosting at top speed and doing his best to keep out of harm's way while the Paladins tried to come up with a tactic that would work. It came as something of a surprise when the giant robot seemed to miscalculate, and bounced off of the hull instead, sending them whizzing off at an odd angle, almost, but not quite out of control. The Robeast slashed at them, missed, and took off after them with a tearing howl of wrath.

“Hunk!” Keith protested, fighting for balance again as something squeaked worryingly under the pilot's seat.

“That wasn't me!” Hunk retorted. “The 'buster's moving. See? Look, it's getting ready to fire again.”

Shiro's heart lifted, and he sighted down the great ship toward the prow, which was visibly angling itself to face Lotor's fleet. He smiled grimly. “How long until it fires, Pidge?”

“Fifteen seconds,” Pidge said, and an evil grin spread over her face. “Want to lead the Robeast past the big gun?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Shiro replied agreeably. “Lance, Hunk, _punch it!”_

Down the length of the great ship they flew, as the secondary and tertiary cannons adjusted their aim, each gun the size of a skyscraper, lines of blue light glowing brighter and brighter as they powered up. Each muzzle lit up with a pale purple glow as the last stages of the priming process brought them to the ready state. Voltron cleared the prow of the ship, giving the Paladins an excellent view of the scintillating depths of the focusing element at least a half-mile below. Hot on their heels, raging-mad and unable to realize what it was flying headlong into, the Robeast followed them.

Voltron made it to the other side in time.

The Robeast didn't.

Space went white again, and the Paladins cried out at the searing brightness of it. When their vision cleared, they saw that nearly half of Lotor's fleet was now a scattering of burning wreckage. That was the good part; the bad part was that something silvery was coming back toward them in a hurry. It had been blown a considerable distance away by the force of the blast, but the Robeast wasn't dead yet.

“Holy crow, what is she making those things out of?” Lance demanded.

“It's gotta have a weak point somewhere,” Keith groaned. “Everything does! Hunk, can you spot it?”

“No,” Hunk said, summoning the scattergun again and showering the Robeast with energy bolts that did little or no damage at all. “I can't see anything behind that shield it's got. You're gonna have to crack that thing off, guys, if you want me to get a better look.”

The Robeast had closed the distance between them, and smashed at Voltron's shield, whirling blades jabbing dangerously at the great robot's shoulder joints. Desperately, Pidge reached out to get a feel of the Robeast's shields, and found herself thwarted—Haggar had upgraded that, too. Obviously, she wasn't going to allow them to disable this thing the way they had brought down Shiro's Robeast body.

“I can't! The breaking point is moving too fast. I could probably figure out the pattern, but it's not giving us any time!” Pidge slammed a frustrated fist on the controls. “I just don't have enough time!”

_Time,_ Shiro thought, and his thought was the Lion's thought. The black Lion's elemental attribute was Time. Almost unbidden, his hand gripped his bayard. If Voltron could give them just a little more time... 

The blue-purple socket to his right gleamed invitingly, and he rammed the bayard into it and gave it a hard turn. A shock ran through Voltron from crown to heels, and a strange silence followed it; the universe seemed to slow for just a heartbeat, the Robeast moving with the ponderous grace of a slow-motion video. The effect lasted just long enough for them to dodge a killing strike, and then everything snapped back to normal. The Robeast, surprised at finding its target gone, smashed heavily into the surface of the planet-buster, plowing a deep trench in the hull and knocking over a secondary cannon.

“What was _that?”_ Lance demanded. “Wait, I don't care what was that, do it again!”

“ _Time manipulation!”_ Coran's voice trumpeted gaily through their comms. _“Very short-range and only a tick or two's worth, but Voltron can slow time if the Paladin's good enough at it. Well done! Only two other black Paladins in history have ever taken it to that level!”_

Pidge frowned at her readouts. “Impressive, but not sustainable. Shiro, that took up a lot of power. A _lot_ of power. Voltron's got only enough for one or two more of those time-tweaks—after that, we'll have to disengage and recharge the Lions. Maybe if Allura was with us, we might have been able to get in a few more, but not this time.”

“I'll make them count,” Shiro assured her, and then hissed through his teeth. “Look out, team, here it comes again!”

It had taken the Robeast a minute or two to extricate itself from the wreckage of the cannon, but it kicked off the last multi-ton section of twisted metal and homed in on its target once more. This time, however, Voltron was ready for it. The Paladins dodged once, twice, and then Shiro slowed time again, allowing Keith and Pidge just enough of a chance to blow away its shielding. The Robeast shrieked as its unseen armor exploded, and again as Hunk and Lance locked up and iced over its moving parts. Keith uttered a roar as he brought the sword around in an awesome overarm slash, and the Robeast tumbled awkwardly away in pieces.

Lance whooped a breathless cheer, but they had no time to celebrate; a shower of ion bolts hissed past them, reminding them that the Ghamparva craft were still out there and intent on their capture. “Not cool, not cool, _not cool!”_ Hunk growled angrily. “If it's not one thing, it's another!”

“ _It's more than that,”_ Allura's voice said sharply, _“you must head for the wormhole, and quickly! The Robeast isn't dead!”_

They looked back with shouts of disbelief and horror. Sure enough, the silvery fibers were starting to weave themselves back together, and the orbital blades were working themselves loose of the planet-buster's hullplate. Voltron needed no more encouragement than that, and headed straight for the exit, the Ghamparva ships in hot pursuit. Unfortunately, what remained of Lotor's fleet was in the way. Shiro muttered a curse and then called out to the others, “Pidge, does the 'buster have anything left in it? Allura, Lizenne, can you clear us a path?”

“The 'buster's pretty much pooped out, Shiro,” Pidge answered breathlessly. “It's already begun its self-destruct sequence. See? There go the escape pods.”

Sure enough, dozens of tiny craft were jettisoning themselves from the planet-buster and speeding away as fast as their engines could carry them. “Maybe we'll get lucky and the Robeast'll go down with the ship,” Shiro said, although he doubted it. “There's our own escape route, team.”

Bright flashes were streaking across the rear of Lotor's fleet now as the Castle and the _Chimera_ made their presence known. So did the Ghamparva ships, which buzzed spitefully around Voltron like a cloud of hornets, just out of weapons range. A thunderous detonation behind them signified the death of the planet-buster, and the shockwave served to scatter the Ghamparva ships momentarily; unfortunately, it also brought the Robeast back into pursuit. It looked a little the worse for wear, but it was still active, and still hell-bent on destroying its foe. Screaming, it lashed out at them, crushing a Ghamparva ship that couldn't get out of the way in time.

“ _Disengage!”_ Shiro shouted, “disengage, and use the cloaking systems! It can't hit what it can't see!”

Voltron promptly split into his component Lions and vanished, forcing the Ghamparva craft to break off pursuit. The Robeast, unfortunately, was not wholly mechanical, and could home in on their aetheric signatures with terrifying precision. One forceblade lashed out and collided heavily with the red Lion, sending it tumbling violently. It crashed into another Ghamparva ship quite by accident, crumpling it up like a beer can and getting wedged in the wreckage. The merciless double impact threw Keith from his seat and headlong into the bulkhead, knocking him unconscious.

“Keith?” Lance shouted, feeling his mind snuff out through the Lion-bond. _“Keith!_ Where are you, buddy? Are you okay? Keith!”

As the Lions darted back to search for their lost comrade, something squeaked irritably beneath the red Lion's pilot seat, and a small compartment in the base popped open. Throughout all of the drama that had happened that day, no one had noticed the actions of the small creature that ventured forth from that hiding place, and indeed, few did at the best of times. The mice lived semi-independently from the Paladins, enjoying a normally idyllic lifestyle in the Castle's walls and only occasionally involving themselves in the affairs of the wider universe. As was their right, they went where they pleased, when they pleased, and for the occasional bit of repair, maintenance, and heroism, they were pleased to take their share of food from the Castle's stores. Platt, who had developed a taste for Modhri's Zampedran energy bars, had snuck into Keith's lunchbox when no one was looking, and had spent the entire battle munching his way through them. The food had been good, the fat little mouse felt, although the accommodations had been lacking, and the jouncing around had been no fun at all. It had nearly upset his stomach! Lance's anguished cries had convinced him that perhaps that last couple of jolts might have been more than his housemate could handle, and so he had stepped out to take a look.

Yes, Platt thought, things had definitely gone wrong. The screens and readouts were full of alerts, alarms, and flashing warnings, and the red Paladin was slumped in a heap on the floor. Platt scrambled over and knocked on the helmet, but the Human was well and truly out, possibly with a concussion. Well, he'd been trained for this. Platt clambered up onto the arm of the chair and squeaked authoritatively at the Lion, making a mental note to bring his armor along next time. The Lion rumbled in response, sounding a little groggy.

Platt shook his head disapprovingly at this poor treatment of a mechanical masterpiece, and uttered a very specific series of squeaks and chitters. The Lions had, after all, been designed by an Altean, and all Altean machines had been designed with mice in mind.

The Lion rumbled again, sounding somewhat embarrassed, and a panel opened in the arm of the chair; rising up out of the recess was a perfect, mouse-sized pilot's seat, complete with control beams and instrument boards. With the air of a seasoned professional, Platt settled himself into the chair and took hold of the controls with the approved battlesqueak. The red Lion heaved, kicked, and hauled itself out of the wreckage of the Ghamparva ship, and then went looking for trouble.

He didn't have to look far. Between a fair number of dark ships rocketing around and a huge, silvery something-or-other that seemed intent on fighting everything in sight, there was plenty to pick from. Platt decided to start small by sending a finely-tuned lance of fire right up a dark ship's thrusters; this had the desired effect, and he squeaked triumphantly as the ship tumbled away, its drive ruined.

“Keith, there you are!” Lance said, sounding hugely relieved as the others let out a cheer. “I was starting to worry there, buddy. What happened?”

“ _Eeek!”_ Platt replied reassuringly.

There was dead silence from the other four Lions. “What?” Lance asked flatly.

“ _Eeek!”_ Platt chirped cheerfully, jinking to one side and zapping another Ghamparva craft that got too close. _“Squeak eek eek eeep!”_

“ _Platt?!”_ Lance demanded. 

“ _Eeek!”_

Shiro let out a puff of laughter. “We already knew that they could fly a starship, Lance. Why not a Lion? Is Keith all right, Platt?”

Platt chirped something that sounded confident.

“Fine,” Hunk said wearily. “I told you that we should have built them a mousy mini-Voltron, guys. Now let's get out of here.”

Platt squeaked authoritatively and took the lead, guiding them through a series of evasive maneuvers that as upright bipeds, they would never have even considered. Like any small creature scrambling madly toward its den, Platt was an absolute expert at dodging predators. Even the Robeast seemed confused by the sudden, rapid changes in direction, the abrupt doubling-back on the trail, and the way they zipped underneath every large object that presented itself; Pidge declared loudly that they should all be taking notes, and the others couldn't help but agree.

Still, it was with great relief when they broke through the enemy lines to rejoin the Castle and the _Chimera,_ who were harrying Lotor's flagship for all that they were worth. The two big support ships broke off their attacks at the sight of the returning Lions and turned about, heading for the nearby wormhole at their best speed. Lotor's ship had no chance to follow; the Robeast was right behind them, and it scored a deep slash down the near flank of the flagship, taking out half of the engine pods and most of the guns in passing.

“ _Lock on to me!”_ Allura shouted, lining the Castle up on the seething circle of the wormhole, _“Follow me in, and do not stray from the course!”_

The _Chimera_ followed her orders with a neatness and precision that told them that Modhri was driving, and the Lions fell in behind the two ships at their best speed. They could feel the pull of the star's gravity now, and felt the rumbling inferno of its outer layers; even so small a star had power beyond their ability to escape if they got it wrong. Allura was too much of a professional for that, and slipped through the burning ring with no trouble, followed by the _Chimera;_ grouped tightly, the Lions entered as well, and the Paladins gasped in wonder at the view around them. This was no tame, spacious, artificially-generated wormhole, with its watery blue light and smooth, straight course. This was a wild wormhole, and fierce, hot colors and strange patterns rippled through its narrow, twisting length. Dimly, they heard Coran shouting instructions to Allura, who had never had to deal with something like this before. They were perhaps halfway through when the entire aether around them shook violently, and they saw a terrible figure forcing its way through behind them. Livid reds and angry purples spangled off of the Robeast's silvery surface, and colorless cracks of eye-watering glare were racing through the wormhole's walls toward the Castle.

“ _It's too much!”_ Coran yelled in alarm. _“That thing is destabilizing the wormhole! We have to exit now, or--”_

The Robeast skewed sideways, unable to keep its balance in the disintegrating pocket of space-time, and it hurled one last attack after them. The leaf-shaped forceblade might have plunged right through the _Chimera_ from engine to bow, but Hunk let out a frantic yell and opened fire. His blast knocked the huge blade away, just enough so that it barely grazed the Hanifor ship, but it struck the Castle hard in the rear. The particle barrier smashed under the force of it, and the blade tumbled, bashing its blunt generator-end hard on the engine deck before whirling away out through the side of the wormhole. That was too much for the wormhole as well, and the whole anomaly splintered just as the Castle, the _Chimera,_ and the Lions spewed back out into realspace. The Robeast, still trapped inside, vanished from existence entirely.

“Holy crud, that was close,” Hunk moaned, gazing out at at a starscape blessedly uncluttered with warships. “Is everyone okay?”

There was a chorus of weary yesses, one triumphant squeak, and an answering groan from Keith. “Whoa,” he said muzzily. “Guys, what happened? And why is Platt flying my Lion? There is an actual mouse flying my Lion. He's got his own little pilot's seat and everything.”

“ _Last desperate emergency measures, according to my father,”_ Coran stated proudly. _“In the case of pilot incapacitation, a sufficiently well-trained mouse would be able to take control long enough to either seek refuge or until the pilot was able to fly again. Happened once or twice over the years, but understandably, no one wanted to make a habit of it. They can't form Voltron, of course, since the Lions can't bond with 'em, and_ yes, _Platt, I know it's discrimination, but that's how the Lions were designed.”_

“ _Eeek,”_ scoffed Platt. 

“ _'S right,”_ Coran continued cheerfully. _“You and your little team_ are _special, Platt. Only the very best mice could be allowed to serve on the Castle, of course, and only the best of the best could keep company with the Royal Family. One of Altea's best-kept secrets, those mice. All Altean ships used to have hundreds, even thousands of mice living aboard, making sure that the wiring stayed wired and vermin stayed on their own side of the hulls. Why, it got so that we got nervous when something_ wasn't _making odd noises in the walls at night. Even Alfor never told the others about it, and Zarkon never had a clue. It's a damned shame that only four of them are still with us. I wonder if there are any colonies of them still on Arus?”_

Keith glared at the mouse, who gave him a thumbs-up. “Fine. Paladin mice. Can we come in now? My head hurts.”

“ _By all means, do so,”_ Coran replied. _“There's something here that needs your attention, anyway.”_

Haggar vented a long, ugly hiss, and Zarkon's fist banged onto the arm of his throne, denting it. Everyone in the throne room went very quiet and backed away. Deadly silence emanated from the throne for several minutes, ending in a frustrated sigh from its occupant.

“The Robeast performed as desired,” Zarkon mused in a neutral tone that didn't fool anybody. “It was a distinct improvement upon its predecessors. Were you aware of the wormhole in that area, Haggar?”

“No,” she snapped. “Nor do I know where the other end led out. That was a natural wormhole, and they bloom and wither like flowers completely at random. If the miners knew of it, they had kept that knowledge to themselves. I was not at fault in this.”

“I did not say that you were,” Zarkon said in a deep and ominous rumble, and keyed the comms. “Arkkax.”

A small screen popped up with gratifying promptness, showing the Commander's tired and angry face. _“Yes, Emperor Zarkon?”_

“Report,” Zarkon replied shortly.

Arkkax sighed. _“Nearly two-thirds of my forces have been destroyed, including the Tarzeroth-class destroyer; the green Paladin took control of it and used it against us. We had no way of stopping her from doing so. Even so, we might have captured Voltron if Lotor had not intruded upon our attempt. He has lost at least half of his own fleet as well. I will transmit the full record of the battle if you wish it. I apologize, your Majesty; I will not be able to carry out your orders to destroy the Beronites with what I have left.”_

Zarkon nodded; Arkkax, at least, was an honest man. “Send the report, Arkkax. I will study it with great interest. Does my son still live?”

“ _His flagship has been damaged, but was not destroyed,”_ Arkkax replied sourly. _“I believe that he does.”_

Zarkon's eyes narrowed; he did not like it when his sons became ambitious. “The Beronites are not important at this time. You and your forces will escort my son and what remains of his fleet back to me. He has much to answer for.”

Arkkax paled visibly, but his expression did not change. _“Immediately, your Majesty. Stand by to receive the report—oh!”_

Arkkax had turned, and was watching something off to one side with an expression of surprise and dismay. _“That shouldn't have been possible!”_

“What happened?” Haggar demanded.

Arkkax bared his teeth at that unknown view. _“Once again, I must apologize, Lady Haggar. Lotor must have been listening in somehow; the flagship and fleet have gone. He shouldn't have been able to do that—your Robeast took out enough of his engine pods to cripple the drive, and this is—or should have been—a secure channel. He's either had his ship illegally modified or he's got at least one genius engineer aboard. Your orders, Emperor?”_

Zarkon humphed softly. “Return to the nearest shipyard and make repairs where necessary; you will receive further orders when that errand is finished. I will decree an Empire-wide watch; Lotor is to be captured and brought to the Center immediately, and his senior officers detained for questioning as well. I very much wish to have words with him.”

Arkkax offered the bow and salute. _“Understood. Transmitting the recordings now, Majesty. Vrepet Sa.”_

“ _Vrepet Sa,”_ Zarkon murmured, and then cast his gaze upon a tall, lean man standing unobtrusively by one wall. “Tashrak.”

Tashrak Kohaak'Naz, Lieutenant-Commander of the Ghamparva, looked up with a thin, anticipatory smile on his sharp-featured face. “Shall we find him for you, Majesty?”

Zarkon nodded. “Do that. Bring him back alive, if you can. I believe that your Order has a score to settle with the boy.”

Tashrak's smile widened. “We do. May we salvage whatever we can of what he has stolen from us, Majesty, and will you want him whole... or may we chastise him a bit?”

Zarkon snorted. “Recover what you can of your stolen ships. As for my son, alive and sane will do. Whole is optional.”

Tashrak bowed, his eyes glinting evilly. “It will be done, Majesty.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god, the mice.


	14. An Invitation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We love Coran. That's all that needs to be said.

Chapter 14: An Invitation

“What do you mean, you can't fix it?” Coran said incredulously. “You've fixed everything else.”

Hunk fixed the Altean with a weary, bloodshot eye, and began ticking reasons off on his fingers. “One: I've never seen anything like this before. Two: At least six or seven really important bits of it disintegrated totally when that Robeast hit it. Three: It's not Altean tech, or standard tech, and in fact looks more like abstract sculpture. I'm good with engines, not Picasso. Four: I'm still pooped out from fighting two fleets and a monster, and last but not least, Five: If I don't get something to eat soon, I'm gonna start chewing on you, and I don't know where you've been.”

Coran gave him an offended look. “I've been right here on the Castle the whole time, thank you very much. We're going to have to do something fairly soon, you know. While we can do without it for now, we'll need it later if we intend to get into any more fights.”

Hunk groaned faintly, rubbing at his eyes. “Coran, we don't ever _intend_ to get into fights. Fights just happen whenever we're around. It's like a natural progression or something. Giant space robot, giant space fight. Even when we leave the robot somewhere else, we get fights. We are fight magnets. And now, I am going to go fight my way to the kitchen, where I am going to have some of that pocket-bread I made earlier, which I had to fight twice. Coming?”

Coran smiled. “Will I have to fight you for it?”

“Probably,” Hunk said, dead serious. “Your weird booster system can wait until I'm not seeing double.”

They made their way to the kitchen without incident, only to find everyone already there. The entire contents of the cooler and a lot of the ready-to-eat snacks from the pantry had been hauled out, warmed up, and piled on the table in an exaltation of leftovers, and the team, Zaianne, and the mice were working their way through it with studious determination. Lance and Allura did look up at their arrival and set down a couple of clean plates, but that was all. In total understanding, Hunk and Coran simply took their places at table and wordlessly joined in the feeding frenzy.

Eventually, Lance let out an ungentlemanly belch and asked, “So, what's the damage?”

Seeing that Hunk was still working on a piece of pocket-bread that he'd loaded with kishwin and thurlo, Coran dabbed at his lips with a napkin and replied, “That parting kiss we got from the Robeast gave the drive section a bit of a knock. Not enough to disable the power core or the drive itself, but it broke one of the booster systems on the main power conduits. Shame, that. It was a genuine Cuashmore, custom-built for Alfor's father by the guin guanself--”

“Guin?” Pidge asked, scraping up the last bit of thamst porridge out of her bowl.

“Oh, yes. The Drinths have three genders—thar, dani, and guin. Don't ask about their courting rituals, or I'll tell you all about them, loudly and at length.” Coran tugged on his mustache, his eyes twinkling humorously. “Suffice it to say, it was a unique mechanism, a real work of art, and that uncultured beast broke it. Hunk here feels that it's beyond his capabilities to repair.”

Hunk shot him a dirty look. “I can't make something out of nothing, Coran. When I said that those parts were gone, I meant it. They're _gone._ I've done some fancy work before, yeah, like when we fixed up Clarence and Jasca, but all of that hardware was good solid material and tried-and-true science. And aetherics, all right, but it was _reliable_ aetherics. Stuff that I know works. That Cuashmore guy was working with theoretical stuff and wire and bits of lace and glass and... I dunno. Cotton candy, maybe. I just can't get my head around what he was doing. Alfor's dad actually paid money for that thing? It looks like something a fifth-grader would have put together in art class.”

Coran humphed derisively. “I'll have you know that Angbard paid Cuashmore no less than one hundred and thirty-nine _poqueps_ of pure platinum for that system, and considered it a very good price, indeed! Pop-Pop was furious, of course, it being something of an insult to his sensibilities as a designer of fine insystem spacedrives, but he couldn't argue with the increased speed it got out of this old ship.”

Shiro gave them a worried frown. “How much will it slow us down? We need all the speed we can muster to stay ahead of the Galra.”

“About thirty percent,” Allura said uneasily, tickling Platt's belly as she did so; the mouse had stuffed himself and was now flat on his back in a well-deserved food coma. “The Teludav is fully functional, but we'll be at a distinct disadvantage in realspace. If Lotor still has any of those Ghamparva ships left, or worse, the actual Ghamparva come looking for us, we risk losing the Castle.”

Keith grunted and tugged his blanket a little closer around his shoulders; the knock to the head that he'd taken had required an hour in the infirmary to straighten out, and he was feeling chilly as a result. “Can we get it fixed? Mom, you said that Queghomm was near Drinthic space.”

Zaianne nodded and refilled her glass from a steaming carafe of tea. “I did, and they're not too far from here. Whether or not they've got anyone capable of repairing or replacing ten-thousand-year-old gadgetry is beyond my knowledge.”

Coran frowned thoughtfully at the last slice of morlaberry pie for a moment before grabbing it. “Ever been to their homeworld, Madame?”

Zaianne shook her head. “Not personally, although I've studied charts of their home System. The Order has had business there in the past.”

“How about that third moon of theirs—sort of reddish, with lumpy little mountain ranges and that big temple dedicated to Saint Jolequah the Terminally Redundant?” Coran asked.

Zaianne cast him an amused look. “That's still there, although it's mostly a museum now. They had to build subsidiary temples on two other moons just for the data storage space, and the fourth moon is being used as a clearing-house for the stock market, at least until the temples run out of shelf space again.”

“Dare I ask?” Lance said, smearing jam on the last piece of pocket-bread.

“The Drinths are a bit anal-retentive about proper documentation,” Coran explained. “Always have been, ever since one of their ancestral figures accepted a verbal contract for their version of the Promised Land and wound up with three hundred miles of quizzip-infested badlands instead. Very good at learning from other peoples' stupid mistakes, the Drinths, and they will always adhere to a properly-written contract, no matter the cost. They use those lunar temples to store their most significant pacts and treaties, and are culturally forbidden from dumping any of 'em.”

Allura sat back in her chair and gave him a hopeful look. “You did say that they owed Father a favor. Would that still be valid even now?”

Coran chuckled evilly. “Oh, very likely, Princess. After we finish our lunch, I daresay that we should attempt to call in that favor.”

“Sounds good,” Shiro said, nabbing just one more lelosha wrap. “Time—and speed—is of the essence.”

A little time later, they ventured back up to the command deck and checked in with the _Chimera,_ which had problems of its own. _“We'll need to stop for repairs soon,”_ Modhri told them solemnly. _“Hunk, your fast thinking saved our ship and our lives, but that blade strike managed to blow out two shield generators, and the structural integrity of our hull's been compromised. I can manage repairs on the shields, but I'll need a real repair dock and some trained techs for the torn hullplates. The dragons tell us that they felt the impact even down in the envirodeck, and Lizenne's furious about the damage. Is the Castle all right? We saw that thing hit you.”_

“We've a broken bit or two ourselves that Hunk says he can't parse,” Coran replied, “but I think that we can winkle some repair service out of the Drinths. Think you can make it to the next System over, perhaps?”

Modhri frowned at his controls. _“The outer orbits, yes, but no further. We could simply ask to borrow Hunk for our own repairs, but after that battle, I don't want to impose upon him if I don't have to.”_

Hunk yawned hugely. “Thanks, man. I'm pooped.”

“If the Drinths become balky, the Blade has a few operatives based there, and we can give them a nudge in the right direction if we need to.” Zaianne gave Coran an arch look. “Assuming that Coran can't do it on charm alone.”

Coran saw her arch look and raised her a haughty sniff. “Madame, my charm was legendary in certain circles once. Let us go, then; I may even be able to arrange for towing service.”

Allura opened a small and gentle wormhole for them, and this time the transition was smooth and easy; they came out in a section of wide-open space with an excellent view of a binary star system, its many planets gleaming like gems in the distance.

“Very nice,” Coran muttered, cracking his knuckles and arranging his long fingers over the controls. “Now, let's see if the Drinths are still the grand old chaps that they used to be.”

A few quick taps on those controls soon brought up a window on the screens, and a person scowling at them through it. That person was particularly suited for that surly expression, having been blessed with a broad, roughly triangular skull, and four large eyes set deeply under heavy, hairy, and beetling brows. It had a thick, prominent jaw that drooped at the corners, large teeth that jutted upward from a wide and thin-lipped mouth, and a large and highly-domed nose that seemed to be custom-designed for wrinkling up in disgust. A pair of short, stubby horns, a mossy-looking coat of fur studded here and there with large maroon-colored warts, and a pair of long drooping ears completed the picture of a fellow who had purposefully rejected the whole idea of being a grand old chap, and would never even consider becoming one. The crowning touch, Shiro felt, having had to deal with stuffy officials many times before, was the necktie. It was horrible, as befit a person of important rank, being a nausea-inducing pattern of cubist swirls in lime green and puce. Coran smiled broadly to see it.

“Aha! A thar of consequence, I see,” Coran said delightedly. “Good day, Portmaster.”

The Drinth gave him a magnificent double scowl, complete with scrunched-up nose and lips so deeply pursed that they satcheled instead. _“It was a good day until you showed up. Unscheduled! Unannounced! In a restricted area, and without proper registration! We don't have business with the Hanifors, and I've never seen anything like that pile of bleached trash you're flying. Go find someone else to pester, two-eyes.”_

Neither the gravelly voice or the acrimonious words seemed to bother Coran in the slightest. “Now, now, that last was a blatant lie, unless teaching standards have declined even more than in the official trend projections. As for the rest of it, well, you should know as well as I do that Royal craft and the conveyances of heroes travel as they please, and are liable to pop up in any old place. Oh, and of course there are emergency situations. Aren't you lucky, thir? You've got all three in one go this time.”

Huge bushy eyebrows rose like sod turves above angry, hot-pink eyes. _“Emergency? Royal craft? Heroes? Pull one of the other ones, it's got bells on. Neither of your ships are on fire, I don't see any Crown registration, and nobody's wearing a cape. Take your freak show somewhere else.”_

Coran waggled an admonitory finger at the grumpy Drinth. “Oh, come now, even a Portmaster should know better than that. Capes are out of fashion these days, and you don't have to be on fire for it to be an emergency—sometimes the parts just melt. As for Royal registrations, that's only necessary for star systems within the Drinthic sphere of influence. Even back when this old thing was new, Altea was well out of that, and Voltron was a valid passport no matter where we were going.”

The Drinth's jaw literally dropped, banging on his control console, and the four fuchsia-colored eyes bulged alarmingly. _“A... Altea?_ Voltron?”

Coran's smile turned slightly malicious. “Ah, I see that your ignorance of history doesn't go all the way down. Yes, thir, you happen to be looking—and for free, mind you—at none other than the Castle of Lions, with a bonus appearance from the _Chimera Rising._ Quite good ships, the pair of 'em, and I do believe that your people owe the Castle a favor. Something about a despotic tyrant, I recall, and the removal of same. Don't tell me that your people have forgotten about that little incident, because I shan't believe it.”

The Drinth glowered at him. _“We haven't. Castle or no Castle, our agreement was with King Alfor, and he was murdered ten thousand years ago by our current despotic tyrant. Unless you've got his corpse around, or a close blood relative--”_

Coran reached over and pulled Allura into view, startling another pop-eyed look of astonishment out of the official. “Right here, thir. Alfor's daughter, preserved along with my own self in cryo-suspension for ten millennia, the Princess Allura. Wave at the nice thar, Princess, he's being obtuse.”

Allura smiled and waved a graceful hand at the nonplussed Portmaster, who was gaping unattractively again. _“She looks just like her mother,”_ the thar whimpered faintly, and then got a grip on thirself. _“All right, fine. Blood relative. So, what's the emergency?”_

Coran twirled his mustache aggressively. “Assuming that you didn't sleep through all of your classical history courses, you might recall that Alfor's father, that was old Angbard—grand chap, loved to argue with your people—contracted, received, and paid for the services of none other than the great Mechanic-Artist Guanduncus Philbett Cuashmore back in... oh, had to be the thirty-third day of Plaushmiss, back in the Year of the Reciprocal Throg during the Beige Era, I believe. He had that wonderfully talented old guin upgrade the Castle's main power distribution system with one of guirs custom-fabricated Haptum-Dilosator Olapton-Splitter Arrays, and it's functioned beautifully since then. Unfortunately, we've just had a bout of heroism recently, and a space monster broke the thing. It needs fixing, and therefore we have come to get it fixed.”

The Drinth sneered at him. It was a truly excellent sneer, showing the nose off to its best advantage, with a fine curled lip and a superlative selection of yellowed snaggle-teeth. _“Not likely. You'll need trained specialists for that, and they'll only come if you've got the proper documentation and an up-to-date warranty. No warranty lasts ten thousand years.”_

Coran sniffed and put on his haughtiest expression. “How about a Writ of Perpetual Relevance?”

The Drinth uttered a horrified squawk. _“You can't have gotten one of those! Only seventeen Writs have ever been issued!”_

“Yes, and we've got Number Eleven.” Coran cast him a stern gaze. “All part of the pact, of course. Getting rid of the Biniriparka of Zorept was a bit difficult, and the people were _very_ appreciative of the team's efforts.”

The Portmaster moaned. _“You wouldn't still happen to have the paperwork, would you?”_

“Why, of course,” Coran said cheerfully. “We've got the digital copy for ease of perusal, the recordings of the presentation and signing ceremony, and even the original skull, written out by the finest Calligrapher they could find.”

Hunk blinked in confusion. “Coran, don't you mean 'scroll'?”

“Of course not,” Coran replied, touching the controls.

At that command, a large circular panel slid open in the floor, and a glass-sided case rose up from below. On a silken cushion within, a large, vaguely triangular skull lay in state, four eyesockets gaping and a truly impressive selection of polished yellow snaggle-teeth lining the jaws. Drinths were much larger than Humans or Alteans, and every inch of the gleaming bone had been covered in minute symbols.

Coran smiled proudly. “Lovely work, isn't it? You can still see the artist's signature, too, right there on the right hinge of the jaw.”

There was a strangled scream from the Drinth Portmaster, and a squawk of disgust from Lance. “Coran, that's someone's actual severed head! That's horrible!”

“But very, very authentic, and extremely traditional.” Coran cast a sharp look at the screen, where the Portmaster was staring in utter horror at the grisly display. “Ever since the beginning of their civilization, the Drinths have always rewarded heroes with such significant favors, graven into the skulls of their defeated foes. If nothing else, it was a way of making sure that the bastards stayed dead. Most of the team didn't like it much, but it was right up Zarkon's alley.”

There was a snort from a secondary screen, and Modhri was seen to smile. _“Our people have a very long history of similar traditions. You should see the trophy shelves behind the desk in Lizenne's Matriarch's office back home; House Ghurap'Han has a rather frightening collection of_ shurgha _cups, which require the braincases of dead enemies to make. They're not terribly common these days, but they're still made now and again. Lizenne intends to obtain Haggar's skull for that purpose, and Zarkon's, if she can get it.”_

The Portmaster swallowed hard, both of thir's adam's apples bouncing with the force of it. _“Great Zwang's Ghost, this is above my pay grade. Have you any idea of how much this will cost us? The interest accrued on the obligation alone... Ten thousand years! This could bankrupt the shipyard!”_

“I am fully aware, thir, and have the calculations right here,” Coran replied, tapping at the controls. “Not to worry, we don't need any of the pomp and circumstance for obvious reasons, just a good quick fix on the damaged systems, plus whatever advancements and upgrades to the technology there might have been since the original installation, plus a checkover of the compatibility, the functionality, and the sparsicranity of the paired systems and the fine-tuning of same... hmmm, and a clean and polish as well. And keep it hush-hush. The Imperials won't be any happier than we will if this little visit is made public, you know.”

The Drinth's ears flapped wildly in sudden rage. _“That still won't discharge the whole debt, and how in the name of the Six Hundred and Thirteen Towers of Annoyance are we going to keep that ugly ship of yours a secret? Throw a tarp over it?”_

“If it's a big enough tarp, it should do the trick,” Coran said calmly. “Look, if you feel the need to fulfill the obligation in one go, our stepsister ship—that's this Hanifor craft here—lost a couple of shield generators during the recent excitement, and has some fairly significant hull damage. We'll need a couple of towing drones as well, due to drive damage to both ships, and if the work isn't done in good time and to our household engineers' satisfaction, there are two very large carnivorous reptiloids and four Altean space mice aboard our craft that will start biting people for performing sloppy work. Will that do?”

The Drinth sagged wretchedly, pink eyes tragic. _“Oh, gods, the mice. All right, all right, that should do it, but I'll still need to contact my superiors about this. You're right about our Governor having one of his cut-rate hissy fits about us fixing you up if he finds out, and some members of the Council really don't want to excite him. We don't have a choice, but... well, give me a few_ flenths _, will you? Don't call me, I'll call you.”_

“Of course, thir,” Coran replied magnanimously, and cut the connection.

Pidge humphed disapprovingly. “Well, that was nice.”

Coran waved a hand airily and leaned back in his console. “They don't seem to have changed much, yeah. Drinths are never happier than when they're filled with outrage. They genuinely enjoy these little inconveniences, just for the lovely cathartic temper tantrums that it lets them throw. I'll tell you right now, if you value your hearing, stay out of the hot-drinks bars! The roaring could deafen a Vorbethan mudmump, and the howling and flailing that will result from the predicament that we've just dropped across their backs will doubtless delight whole crowds of them.”

“So, they'll agree to the terms of your...” Shiro glanced at the ugly trophy in its case, “...contract, there?”

Coran chuckled. “Of course they will. Surly they may be, but they're absolutely obligated to fulfill any agreement they sign, so long as the documentation is in order... and you don't get more orderly than a genuine pact skull. They've probably woken up every Archivist in the first Lunar Temple already, and are having them hunt up their copy of the contract.”

Keith gave him a suspicious look. “Their copy?”

“Digital, video, and a casting of that thing,” Coran flicked a finger at the skull and then tapped the control that had it sinking back into the floor. “One should always keep copies of important documents. Saves a lot of trouble later.”

A little time later, the Portmaster hailed them again, looking extremely put out. _“You win, you kaporla-hugging spargiminop. The Archivists have found our copy, and have confirmed the terms. We'll repair your ships. Don't celebrate yet—there's a price.”_

Allura lifted an eyebrow. “A surcharge, thir? I don't believe that such a thing would be permitted under this sort of contract.”

The Drinth winced at her tone. _“Not my idea, Princess. Things aren't the same now as they were then, and we run with a different bunch of allies these days. We're not even in a dominant position anymore, since it's all run by committee. The Othorim Collective at least tries to keep things equal, and it is, as far as that goes. Some are more equal than others, if you catch my meaning. A lot of them don't much care for Galra, but a bunch of them do, and they had to get the Official Granidlo to shut down the worst of the screaming arguments just now.”_

“What's that?” Hunk asked curiously.

The Portmaster rolled thirs eyes. _“Now who's ignorant of history? A few hundred years ago, the Council hired an Elikonian named Granidlo to keep the politicians from boring everyone to death with long arguments and speeches. He was so good at it that they made the post permanent, although since the Empire grounded them, we've had to get a big dani with a mallet in to do the job. It works. Nobody likes getting a sudden headache in the middle of an oratory. Anyway, they all agreed that since none of you people have ever gone through the Council-approved vetting process for Allied status, you can do that while we get your ships spaceworthy again. No, not even the Galra have been vetted. When the Delegates floated the concept to our surly purple overlords, they threatened to have the Council executed.”_

“Sounds like fun,” Coran said. “What does this process entail?”

“ _Dancing,”_ the Portmaster told them glumly. _“A full, formal-dress dance party. A little more than half of our allies think that watching a person jigging around the floor is the best way to judge his character.”_

Keith looked up sharply. “No.”

“ _Yes, or you don't get your repairs done.”_ The Drinth held up a six-fingered hand, three fingers crooked. _“They want three dances out of you, and every sentient on your ships has to perform in at least two of them. One children's dance, one historical dance, and one all-inclusive dance. Make that last one catchy, 'cause the idea is to make the Council members and staff want to join in, too. No exceptions; the security's going to have to be tight, and that runs expensive. As it is, I'm going to have a hard time finding a big enough tarp to drop over that antiquated relic of yours.”_

Coran scowled at the Portmaster. “Are you saying that you won't be able to adhere to the terms of the agreement?”

The Drinth banged a fist on his desk.  _“No! I'm saying that I'll probably have to use a circus tent for the purpose, and keeping people from wandering in and asking where the gloupivant rides are is going to be a pain in the tail! The party will be held in the main Council Hall, that's the big thing with the three golden domes in the middle of town, and it'll happen in three days. Try to pick dances that don't make you look_ too _idiotic, although that's kind of hard for upright bipeds, now isn't it? Honestly, watching you silly-looking creatures totter around on your stilts makes me want to_ fluglorp. _Try not to cause any trouble between now and then, all right? Signing out.”_

“I hope all of your warts fall off,” Coran responded politely. “Signing out.”

Lotor watched curiously as the senior engineer pressed one ear against the housing of the damaged engine and listened intently. Respectful silence reigned in the bay while he did this, and continued when he moved a few steps down and listened again. The engineer frowned slightly, took two steps further down, listened, and then backed up one step, the knowledgeable brow smoothing as he found the correct spot. He then took a piece of chalk from a pocket and marked that particular spot with a small “X” and stepped back, holding out a hand. One of his fellow engineers passed him a large hammer, with which he hit the X-mark very hard. There was a rising hum and a scattering of applause as the engine pod came back online.

The senior engineer handed the hammer back to his colleague with a nod of thanks and then turned to the Prince. “That's it, m'Lord. All pods are go. Try not to get into any more Robeast fights, all right? This big girl just isn't designed for it.”

“What was wrong with this pod?” Tilwass asked, squinting up at the massive drive segment. “The repair drones couldn't find anything.”

The senior engineer, eldest and highest in rank of the men stolen from Nelargo Shipyard, puffed a breath of professional disdain. “Your drones are top-of-the-line, but no drone can catch the small, tricky stuff. See here--” the man tapped the smudged X-mark and ran a work-gnarled hand along the casing, “--the main coolant line has a bunch of junctures right here, where lesser lines split off and make sure that this thing doesn't overheat. Sometimes you'll get a substandard batch of coolant in, or a good batch that's been sitting around for too long. Works just fine until something gives the ass-end of the ship a hard knock, which can cause crystals to form in the coolant. Those crystals don't usually cause any trouble, but they can clump up in the junctures if the couplers are more than eight years old and have seen a bit of wear, and the automatic shutdown systems kick in if the coolant's not flowing right. If you know what to listen for, you can actually hear the sound of the coolant trying to squeeze past those clogs. Now, we could have spent the next eight days or so taking the casing off, disengaging the sections, and going through each and every juncture with a bottle-brush, but I've found that a whang on the casing with a big hammer creates just enough of a sonic burst to shake the clumps loose. The trick is to find the exact right spot, see?”

“I bow to your skill,” Lotor murmured absently, staring pensively up at the engine pod. “How do the other repairs progress?”

The senior engineer sobered. “Just about finished. _Narvorak, Kevrachi,_ and _Vishta_ ships are built tough and they're designed for fast fixes. That battle knocked their number down by more than half, though, m'Lord. That long rake down the flank we took should be patched up by the end of the day and we didn't strip too many thrusters getting this thing up to speed for the hyperspace jump, but I really meant it about avoiding Robeast fights. We're good for the time being, but we'll have to restock on parts and raw materials soon. That probably goes for the rest of the fleet as well, which is also down by more than half. Getting fresh ships, crew, and supplies... that's going to be risky now.”

It certainly was. He had gotten one of this man's colleagues to tweak his comm system so that it could access secure communications channels, and he was aware of the discussion that his father had had with Commander Arkkax. If he allowed himself to be captured, he was doomed; that had been very clear. If he stayed on the Empire's fringes and turned semi-pirate long enough to find a way to take the Lions, he might yet win his father's forgiveness. Failing even that, possession of the Lions might buy him other things. Perhaps one of those great cats might even consider him as a pilot. He'd have to dispose of the current ones, of course, but both his father and Haggar dearly wanted to get their hands on them. Far more, he knew, than they wanted him. After all, he couldn't claim so much as a drop of the aetheric power that even one Paladin could muster. All he had was his training, a much-reduced fleet of warships, and the rank of Crown Prince, which meant precisely nothing to his father at the moment. Whether or not it would still guarantee him aid in the future was debatable and increasingly unlikely.

“We will manage,” Lotor told the engineer. “I will take the Lions eventually. I suspect that it will be a matter of strategy rather than force; if this last battle has told me anything, it is that raw force, even overwhelming force, does not work well against the Paladins.”

“That's so, m'Lord,” the engineer replied. “Guile's easier on the ships, too. Good luck with that.”

Lotor nodded and left the bay, Tilwass trailing behind him.

“He's right, you know,” Tilwass said in a low voice. “An Imperial Decree's just been put about. The whole fleet's been marked for capture, sir. You're to be brought directly to your father, and me and the command staff are to be turned over to Haggar for questioning. Rumor says that the Emperor's got the Ghamparva on the job, too, and they don't like you much right now.”

Lotor sighed in disgust. “I'm aware. Is that all of the bad news?”

Tilwass waggled a hand. “It's the worst of it, but Sergeant Hokora's been talking with the Nelargo guys, and they say that Lady Ghurap'Han's got contacts with just about every other major shipyard in the Empire. If we take damage that our drones and techs can't fix, we'll have to steal new ships from some Garrison or other. Any repair job at any of the big shipyards will be mostly sabotage, and probably loaded with tracking devices.”

The Prince grunted sourly. “And we can expect the same treatment from any of the dark ports, I imagine, for our treatment of pirates in the past.”

“The Ghost Fleet's respected, sir,” Tilwass replied glumly. “Any pirate portmaster would leap at the chance to hand you off to Yantilee. I don't think that their Admiral was too pleased to lose that hideout of theirs. Do you mind if I act like a coward for a moment, sir?”

That surprised a smile out of Lotor, who cast Tilwass an amused glance. “Go ahead, but don't take it to extremes. We haven't the time to coax you down out of the ventilation ducts.”

Tilwass chuckled. “Thanks. All right, here goes.” He assumed a hunched posture, and his face took on an almost comical expression of existential dread. “Let's all run away, sir, six or seven hundred thousand lightyears out beyond the Fringe. We can find a nice planet somewhere and settle down, maybe send some men back for a quick raid to find us some ladies that are up for a bit of homesteading, and found our own little Empire while the Paladins and your dad kill each other. After all of the ruckus dies down—and we've made sure that Voltron's wiped out Haggar and the Ghamparva, and maybe Lady Ghurap'Han, too, maybe then you can come back and pick up the pieces.” He added a whine and a moan for good measure, and then straightened up again. “Okay, I'm done.”

Lotor vented an amused snort. “Very concise. Have you been practicing?”

Tilwass rolled his eyes. “I wouldn't have risen to the rank I've got if I didn't have good self-control. The troops don't like it if they see the brass panicking, and you can't do anything without the troops, sir. Since I figure that you're not going to take us out into the great beyond, what now?”

The Prince sobered, weighing their chances and not much liking the answer. “I will not run, Tilwass. We will finish making our repairs, and while that is going on, I will assess the situation and make plans. I _will_ take the Lions, or I will die trying. We will wait, and we will watch. The Paladins have been extraordinarily lucky thus far, but luck has a nasty habit of running out at awkward moments. When it does, I will be waiting.”

Tilwass hummed thoughtfully. “Good enough, sir. Will you want to start thinking about rebuilding our numbers, too? I've highlighted a few garrison fleets in nearby systems where the Governors have been a tad sloppy about the patrols. Good ships, lax oversight, bad commanders. Easy prey.”

Lotor cast his lieutenant an arch look. “You take to piracy easily, Tilwass.”

Tilwass gave him a self-depreciating smile. “Family tradition, sir. My Lineage has been brigands and branth thieves ever since the Primal Pack first stumbled out of the Old Forest. I joined the Military because it was either that or a prison camp; I wasn't quite as good as the rest of my kin at getting away clean, sir, and the recruiters were hard-put to make quota that month. My Matriarch didn't much care which one I chose, having been of the opinion that if I was dumb enough to get caught, the House didn't need me. I chose this, and made her proud anyway.”

Lotor frowned. Tilwass's words had pricked a tiny pang of envy in him; he had fought for most of his life to win his father's approval, and without much success; Zarkon was largely indifferent to the children he sired. Lotor and Haggar had hated each other at first sight, and his own mother had abandoned him and his brothers the moment that they'd come of age. It occurred to him that he knew nearly nothing of half of his ancestry, and wondered what his mother would think of him now. He shook off his moment of unease; it wasn't important right now. His survival and his goals took precedence over such trivialities, and he would bend his full attention to achieving both.

“Come, then, and show me these targets,” he told Tilwass. “We are indeed understrength.”

Tilwass nodded in satisfaction at the iron in his voice. “Yessir.”

“No,” Keith declared, his expression thunderous and his entire posture proclaiming defiance. “No, no, _no._ I'm not gonna do it.”

“We don't have much of a choice, Keith,” Allura said sharply. “We need the Castle intact, and Hunk isn't able to help this time.”

That was regrettably true. Even after eight hours of sleep and a good breakfast, the bizarre booster system was still beyond Hunk's comprehension, and they just didn't have the parts on hand to approximate a version of his own. During that time, the Castle and the _Chimera_ had been towed back to the Queghomm Shipyard, and they had all gathered in the Castle's main lounge to plan for the party. So far, Keith was the only one who had any objections to attending a dance. Even the mice and dragons were perfectly willing to participate, and figuring out the choreography for them was going to be interesting.

Hunk, who actively enjoyed dancing and was, in fact, quite good at it, poked Keith's shoulder. “Come on, man, it's not all that bad. You only have to do two out of three, too. Heck, you're a martial artist. Martial arts is just dancing with boot-to-the-head and pointy things thrown in. That's how the Koreans managed to hold onto their martial arts styles when they got invaded way back when, you know—they hid them by ditching the weapons and adding fancy outfits and a sound track. Can't you do that for just one night?”

Keith glared at him. “No.”

“Khaeth, you will do this,” Zaianne said sharply, bringing the unfair advantage of a mother's authority to bear. “If it makes you feel any better, I once had to pose as a temple dancer for over a year, a posting that required me to shave off all of my fur and dye my skin red.”

Lance stared at her incredulously. “Really? All of it?”

She grimaced in distaste. “All of it. The Dzubdicarveh people resemble Galra quite closely, but they are entirely hairless, crimson from top to toe, and their dancers perform naked. This is nothing, Khaeth, and at least you won't have to worry about sunburn in odd spots. Or frostbite, for that matter. The Winter Rites were a trial for everybody.”

Silence reigned in the room for a long moment, along with a number of reddened faces as they imagined Keith's mother, who was still a very attractive woman, in that particular role. Keith deflated, but held on to his truculent expression out of sheer stubbornness. “Fine,” he grumbled. “I can't believe that they're making us do this, though. I mean, dancing? How is _that_ supposed to help with choosing an ally?”

“Now, now, young man,” Coran admonished with a twirl of his mustache. “You can tell a lot about a person by the way he moves. A nervous person is inclined to move nervously, after all, and a predator will naturally act like one. Don't think that I haven't seen you stalking around the halls of a night like a borbrun on the scent, and Madame here not only stalks along like a borbrun, but a borbrun that has already eaten one intruder and is looking for seconds. All the Blades move that way. Dance just adds a bit of poetry to the motion, and it's an excuse to have a party with refreshments; preferably with all of those tasty little nibbles on sticks, and a lot of fizzy drinks.”

Keith rolled his eyes and protested, “Coran...”

Alas, Coran wasn't done yet. “Quite a lot of peoples were like that, and some of it took it a lot further than others. Some, like the Dzubdicarveh, preferred an unclad exhibition, while others went the other way completely, and you could barely move for the costumes. Still others made endurance competitions out of such events, and the party could last for days. There was one bunch who took dancing right off of the ballroom floor and into the bedroom for a more one-on-one experience, and my, goodness, didn't Melenor give Alfor a piece of her mind when she found out exactly what that entailed! It was just as well that Gyrgan and Trigel were off on a mission at that time; Blaytz didn't mind, of course, he was very open-minded about close interspecies relationships, but Zarkon jumped out of a window and spent the rest of the night hiding in the rock garden. Blaytz never let either of them live it down, and Gyrgan and Trigel watched the recordings over and over for a week. It was a grand party and we made a very good alliance by it, but Melenor demoted the diplomat who'd arranged it without telling her the... hmm... _particular preferences_ of the guests.”

“Coran...” Allura growled warningly, but Coran had hit his stride.

“My personal favorites were the--” Coran paused to wave his arms about and caper like a clown, “--don't look at me like that, that's how it's pronounced. They were completely deaf and had no vocal apparatus whatsoever, and they communicated entirely through dance and gesture. Watching their public speakers was a visual delight. Of course, you did have to be careful when watching some of their daytime vid shows, because—eek!”

This time, Lizenne and Zaianne had caught him by both ears.

Shiro smiled at his startled and rather cross-eyed expression. “Thanks for the history lesson, Coran, but it's beside the point. We need to figure out what we're going to do for the event, and hopefully without embarrassing ourselves to death. So—the children's dance. Anyone have any ideas?”

Lance waved a hand. “I nominate Pidge for the Hokey-Pokey! She's just the right size.”

Pidge nudged him sharply in the ribs. “Anyone can do the Hokey-Pokey. That's what it's all about, Lance. Literally. Unfortunately, it's kind of up there on the terminal embarrassment scale. Anyone have any other ideas?”

Modhri smiled wistfully. “Not really. Galra cubs are more like small wild animals than civilized beings, and while we might sing a bit, the games are mostly chasing our siblings around and biting them. In my family, at least, when we've outgrown that sort of behavior, our time is taken up in early training. The demands of House Ghurap'Han upon our lives leaves us with very little time or energy left over for play, alas. Allura, what activities do young Alteans amuse themselves with?”

Allura brightened up a little. “We have many. Altean society was very cooperative, and a good deal of our early education focused on ways to foster a love of working together. Unfortunately, I'm not sure that such dances are feasable for our group. None of you can change shape or color easily, and it would take you more time than we have to learn the ins and outs of the obstacle course. Did Father ever get the flamethrower repaired, Coran?”

“No, there wasn't time,” Coran said sadly, “and we're fresh out of norzat fish for the water hazards. It's just not the same without them, you know.” He frowned at the Paladins, who were staring at the two Alteans as though they had grown antlers. “What?”

Hunk heaved a sigh. “Alteans are hardcore. Hokey-Pokey it is, then. It's fast, easy, simple, and won't get anyone hurt unless Tilla steps on us. We'll show you guys how to do it after lunch. All right, how about historical dances? Any ideas there?”

“We could do Ring Around the Rosie,” Lance suggested, “that's a kid's dance and a history dance at the same time.”

Pidge shook her head. “It's a folk memory of the Black Plague, Lance. Wrong message, and don't suggest folk dancing, either. A lot of those commemorate public executions. A waltz might count, but it's pretty trivial.”

“What's a waltz?” Lizenne asked.

Zaianne sniffed disapprovingly. “The dancers pair up and whirl interminably together to music with a one-two-three rhythm. How is that historical?”

Pidge smirked. “It used to be considered to be really naughty when it first came out. The man and the woman were actually touching each other, on the shoulders and waist, even! European society had real problems with that sort of thing a few hundred years ago. The waltz was as big of a game-changer back then as Rock 'n' Roll was later on, in its way.”

“I suppose that we could do the Hula,” Hunk suggested, and then thought better of it. “Nah. Takes too long to learn it properly, and we'd need leis and grass skirts. And a luau, but we don't have the pineapples, poi, or roast pig. Or, if you want to be really traditional, the active volcano. Shiro, any suggestions?”

“Not really,” Shiro admitted. “I came to it late. Adam enjoyed Tango, but...” he eyed the dragons and shook his head. “I don't think that would work for us. Allura?”

“Several, but we lack the necessary time and components,” Allura admitted. “Lizenne, Zaianne, do Galra dance? Only I've never heard of your people doing so.”

“Oh, we dance,” Zaianne murmured thoughtfully. “There are numerous forms, some more difficult than others. Unfortunately, all of my training has been in martial arts. You'd have a better idea of what might be appropriate, Lizenne.”

Lizenne made a face. “Had the classic forms forced down my throat, you mean. Mother had hoped to produce a diva, and thought that I might be that one.”

Modhri smiled. “Oh, come now, you got to be quite good at it, at least when you had me helping you practice. I particularly enjoyed the _Hikkechmi-Rauntha.”_

“The what?” Shiro asked curiously.

“Hikkechmi-Rauntha,” Zaianne said with a sly smile in Modhri's direction. “It's a style of dance that is a little like ballet, a little like opera, and a bit like those theatrical plays by... what was that Human's name... Quiverpike?”

“Shakespeare,” Shiro corrected her. “We have a version of that kind of acting called 'musicals'. Sounds interesting.”

“It is, and is usually used to tell tales of the ancient days, before Zarkon took the Throne.” Modhri's eyes grew distant. “It goes in and out of fashion fairly frequently, since the Emperor doesn't really want people yearning for a time when he was not in power, but most Galra children get at least the basics of it during early schooling.” He turned a loving look upon his wife. “My personal favorite has always been a small section of one of the great epics, Act 2, scene 4 of _Kharchozra mak Thuthros,_ the Courtship of Salchor and Kerolla.”

Lizenne poked him in the ribs with an arch smile. “Yes it was, you naughty man, and we practiced that one so often that it's still engraved on my mind. Your elder sister, as I recall, grew very tired of having to play my adversary. I still happen to have that special-edition recording of the epic and the soundtrack that you gave me.”

“Do you?” Modhri said delightedly. “Keep it well, then. After Zarkon set the Ghamparva on the Chalep'Thoras, it became nigh-impossible to find anything by either Hantis or Tandrok.”

Pidge looked up sharply. “Hantis? Chalep'Thora? That's Ronok's family! He used to let me listen to his recordings of her when I couldn't sleep. She was a genius!”

Zaianne sighed sadly. “Yes. That Lineage was famous for producing prodigies of all sorts, and Simadht was not at all pleased to lose them. That we have the last two survivors of that disaster will serve us well when we speak to their Governing Council. Hantis and Tandrok were asked to help with a production of that epic many years ago—Tandrok with the language and Hantis with the music. It was widely acclaimed as the best production of _Kharchozra mak Thuthros_ ever written, and they got in all the best actors and singers for it, as well. Hantis herself performed in a few of the minor roles, and it was absolutely magical, both to watch and to listen to.”

“That sounds encouraging,” Allura said. “Will you be able to perform it?”

Lizenne chuckled. “Not all of it. That particular epic required over two hundred skilled performers of all kinds, and took several days to get through. It concerns the events of the years just after the Sisterhood War, you see, beginning with the ascent of Emperor Modhri the Wise to the Throne, and continuing down through several of his descendants. The three of us can certainly handle that one little scene that Modhri is so fond of. We might even coax one of Zaianne's colleagues into playing the narrator, so that the audience has some idea of what is actually going on.”

“I'm sure that we can find someone willing to officiate,” Zaianne replied, and then cast an almost comically avaricious look at Modhri. “Might I play the part of Kerolla, I wonder?”

Lizenne swatted at her with a crack of laughter, although her eyes flashed dangerously for just a fraction of a second. “Only if you want the knife fight to be a real one, you flagrant tease! He's mine, Zaianne, you know that.”

They stood very still, gazes locked for a long moment, and then Zaianne backed away, bowing in concession and averting her eyes from a startled-looking Modhri. “Of course,” she said lightly, but there was an undercurrent in her voice that the others realized with some perplexity as embarrassment, and apology. “I'm sorry, Lizenne. I'll be the narrator, just to be safe, and I'll ask around for other candidates for Telchamar's part. I'll be up on the bridge, if you need me.”

They watched her go in a bemused silence that was broken by Modhri's sigh. “We're going to have to take Tzairona home soon.”

“What do you mean?” Keith asked, worried for his mother.

Modhri shook his head sadly. “Zaianne's period of mourning for your father is almost at an end, and she wants very much to give you some brothers to boss around before she becomes too old to do so. I am, although it's immodest to say it, a very desirable male, and Lizenne and I have not had cubs yet. That makes us vulnerable, you see, to any sufficiently determined harpy that feels herself capable of fighting Lizenne for me. Our bond is strong, but not set in stone yet. The sooner that we can present your mother with a whole crowd of fine men of my Lineage, the better. I am not sure, but I have the feeling that my great-uncle left quite an impression upon her, back when she was a trainee.”

“He did,” Lizenne said shortly, her eyes angry, although she relaxed when Modhri laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder, “and she has just made her preference for those of your Line known. We will just have to wait for the right time. Shussshorim's grandchildren will tear through the fleets like tissue paper sooner or later, and the Navy will perhaps be forced to pull away from the Core worlds just enough for it to be possible for us to make that journey.”

Shiro sighed and paused, his mind flickering momentarily with impressions too brief to make sense of, although there was a faint sound of angry voices and a whiff of something burning. “That's for later. All right, we've got two dances covered. Have any of us got an all-inclusive one that doesn't involve special equipment, specific abilities, special training, or potential mayhem?”

Hunk hummed and picked up his handcomp. He'd downloaded the snapshot of Earth's internet that Lizenne had taken so long ago onto it, and typed “Popular Dances” into the search function while the others discussed this possibility or that. The screen came alight with everything ranging from the Quadrille to the new fad for African Neo-Tribe Industrial that had been offending the conservatives worldwide just before the blue Lion had carried them all away. He wondered absently if that style had hung on, or if it had vanished from the limelight the way that Astro-Fusion Dutty-Wine had six or seven years ago. The music had been okay, but he just wasn't built for that kind of shimmying. _Nah,_ he thought, and turned his attention to the classics. _Let's see... the Funky Pickle Retrolution... nope, we'd wind up collapsing the tables. The Spismodic... nope, too big of a chance of whiplash. The Electric Stomp... nope, sound file's corrupted and you can't get the boots anymore, anyway. The Chicken Dance... not after what happened at the Senior Prom in High School, thank you very much. Well, there's always Walk Like An Egyptian..._

He was momentarily distracted by an angry shout from Keith and a burst of heat; Keith's temper had gotten the better of him, and he'd set the red couch on fire by accident. He was currently stomping out of the room with most of the others chasing after him, with only Lance left behind to douse the couch. Lance was well up to that task, since Lizenne had shown him how to condense the moisture out of the air, and so Hunk turned back to his search to the tune of Lance's griping. He had nearly given up when he stumbled across a winner. A broad smile spread itself over his face, and he leaned over and nudged Lance.

Lance had just smothered the flames under an inch of snow and was not feeling in charity with the world. “Crud. Will you look at that? I'm going to have to reupholster the whole thing, and I'm not sure of how to do that. This was the comfiest piece of furniture in the Castle, too. Quit poking me, Hunk.”

“Sorry. The Castle probably has instructions for fixing it somewhere. That's not really important.” Hunk indicated his handcomp with a smug smile. “I found our all-inclusive. I'm gonna need extra glitter on my suspenders.”

Lance paused, and an answering smile bloomed on his face. “Really?” he asked hopefully. “Will you need... a _bow tie?”_

“Oh, yeah,” Hunk passed him the comp. “She got the original vid, too. I can put together a screen projector in no time flat, and if you can get a set of super-dancewear made up for each of us...”

“Perfect,” Lance stated. “Not a problem, I've got everyone's sizes already, and I'll talk to Coran and Zaianne about ways to hide weapons and shields and things. For you, my friend, the big gold sequins.”

“Awesome,” Hunk said, taking his handcomp back and slipping it into a pocket. “Think you'll be able to get everything in?”

Lance drew himself up proudly. “Just call me 'Q'. You go tell Shiro we've got a good one, and I'll get right on it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No couches were harmed in the making of this chapter.


	15. Accesorize!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With Halloween coming up this week, my retail job is about to get insane to the point where by the holiday itself, I shall be a gibbering blob of hysteria. Just in time for trick or treaters! So I'm posting now, while I still have a modicum of (questionable) sanity. Though at least I won't have to buy a costume... Also, a longer chapter today, because there just wasn't anywhere else to properly cut the story. A lot of this chapter has to do with personal indulgence, but we hope you enjoy!!

Chapter 15: Accessorize!

It was a big tarp. It was a _very_ big tarp, and to the Drinth Portmaster's credit, it hadn't been striped in loud colors. What it did have was special embedded systems that blocked scans and most comm channels, and they had enveloped the Castle in this modesty sheet well before they came within the planet's orbit. A second one had been found for the _Chimera_ as well, and a large force-dome served to keep the curious well away, once the drone tugs had lowered both damaged ships into the repair docks. Zaianne had used the time to contact the local chapter of her Order, and a certain amount of careful negotiation had found her a good candidate for the role. She still felt a twinge of shame every time she thought of how she had disqualified herself from participating; making a pass at any woman's man was rude, and to make one at her sister's husband—even though they weren't blood relatives—was intolerably poor behavior. It had been an impulse driven by her instincts; Modhri was an exceptionally fine man, and she wanted more children. _Later,_ she promised her pouting biological clock, _but not too much later._ They would get this nonsense done and over with, and then they would press on with their plans. Sooner or later, events would allow for more freedom, and by damn, the Fates owed her something after forcing her away from her one son while he'd still been in infancy.

“Pining for something, Madame?” Coran asked, coming up behind her. “Only you're looking a bit peaky.”

She snorted a bitter laugh. “What I want most is what I cannot have. I want those seventeen years back, Coran. The seventeen years of Khaeth's life when I could not be there for him... or for his father. I want those lost opportunities back, every one of them.”

Coran shook his head and laid a sympathetic hand on hers. “Don't we all. If only I'd spoken up when Zarkon's behavior started to turn odd, if only I'd taken the time to say certain words to someone I'd cared deeply about, if only I'd convinced Alfor to let me stand with him when it all came to an end... well, things might have been a bit different. Or perhaps not. I had a little talk with Loliqua while she was here, and she said that perhaps nothing might have stopped Zarkon and Haggar from doing what they did. It all went wrong well before that, she said, when that prince of yours died.”

“Prince Rhonorath,” Zaianne mused. “Even after ten thousand years, there are those who wish that the assassin had missed, you know. Even now, his death is still considered a national tragedy.”

“Was he really so well-loved a fellow?” Coran asked curiously. “All of the excitement happened well before my time, d'you see, but Alfor and the rest of us spent a lot of time dealing with the consequences.”

Zaianne frowned, delving into her memories of schoolroom history lessons. “Oh, yes. If there was anything remarkable about the First Imperial Lineage, it was that it was a meritocracy within the monarchy. All of the descendants of Modhri the Wise were educated intensively in statecraft, and only the very best of those were in the running for the Throne. It was one of the reasons for their remarkable success. In Rhonorath's case, it was as if the First Emperor himself had been reborn, and the people rejoiced, and looked forward with eagerness to his reign. He was, according to the Histories, a paragon. And then the Carlumnians had him killed so that they could scavenge off of the ensuing chaos. There aren't any Carlumnians left, by the way. They tried their usual tactics on Zarkon as well, and he had them exterminated. It was that, more than anything else, that won him the loyalty of all Galra—fitting revenge for the murder of the very best of us.”

Coran hummed, fingering his mustache thoughtfully. “If Rhonorath was half as good as our own Modhri, then yes, it would have been. I'd met a few Carlumnians, and they were all of them deplorable. Historical and personal woes aside, Madame, have you found an understudy?”

She gave him a thin smile for his careful choice of words and nodded. “Yes, actually. Her name is Erantha, and she's the right age and has had the right training to help us out with this. She'll arrive sometime in the next hour or so, if only for the chance to cross knives with the Rogue Witch herself. Pidge isn't the only one of our group who is viewed with a certain amount of awe.”

Coran chuckled. “We're a naturally awesome group, I feel.”

“Indeed,” Zaianne replied. “I'm told that bringing in outside aid is not precisely within the rules of your carved-in-bone contract, but the local officials won't care so long as they get to see a Galra dance. Apparently, there are members of the Council that are both powerful and afire with curiosity, and they'll squelch any objections that might pop up.”

“Hmm,” Coran mused. “And the Governor?”

“Hasn't a clue.” Zaianne leaned back in her chair with a superior smile. “According to my colleagues, he landed his job more through Family connections than administrative skill, and he's far more interested in his own comforts than he is in the actual work involved in overseeing so large and complex a posting. So long as nobody actually tells him that there are Lions in his backyard, we should be all right, and one of ours is the person who handles most of his calls. There are more of our people embedded in the Council's staff, and that will give us a certain amount of protection as well. It's still a risk, but I'm fairly sure that it's one that we can handle.”

“Very likely, but we shouldn't court overconfidence,” Coran said, smiling at the irony—extreme caution was usually Zaianne's purview. “As a matter of fact, that's why I'm here. Lance sent me to ask you to come to his little workshop—he's making the team some dancewear and wants our input on enhancing it for... let us say... unforeseen happenstance. Shall we humor the lad?”

“I think we should,” Zaianne replied graciously. “Let me just warn everybody that we'll have company soon, and set myself an alert for when she arrives. I've been told of Erantha's prowess as a blade dancer, and I'm going to want to see what happens when she sees those tambok-fang knives.”

Coran snorted. “If she's anything like Nasty was, there may be duels over them. I do hope not, having had to stand as second during a few of those. They could get quite messy, particularly if there was some important item or territory at stake. Damned near wound up as wagered property myself once or twice, as a matter of fact, and if Alfor hadn't had such a quick hand with a poniard, archaeologists would have found my bones in one of the tombs in the Vassarbrilchen Royal Necropolis by now, along with the other body-servants of the then-current king. Probably right next to Alfor's, as a matter of fact, since kings were allowed to keep defeated rivals as special pets if they were kingly, too. Then again, probably not. The Vassarbrilchens were a brave but brittle lot, and Melenor would have broken the fellow over her knee to get her husband back, and damn the consequences. Wonderful woman.”

Zaianne gave him an amused glance and sent her message to everyone's handcomps. “What sort of consequences?”

“Hmm? Oh, she would have had to take over the rulership of their kingdom.” Coran sighed and shook his head disapprovingly. “It's one of those warrior-state things, you know, where the strongest fighters get to be supreme over all. Terribly inefficient, although they do become very skilled at hiding weapons in odd spots, as Lance is trying to do. Shall we go and help him with that?”

She rested a graceful hand on his offered arm and stood up. “Of course. It's an elder's duty to aid the young in their projects, after all.”

“Indeed, Madame.”

“I dunno,” Lance said, considering his options. “I think she'd look better in the cream instead of the ice white, don't you think? Or maybe the bone, or the eggshell. Her skin tone's tricky, especially with the hair, and I don't want to make her look like an ice queen. There aren't any real ice queens out there, are there?”

Coran gave his mustache a nostalgic twirl. “There certainly used to be. Don't know if they're still there. Yes, as I recall, in the Lannas System. Binary system, one blue giant star being orbited at a reasonably safe distance by a nice little yellow one. No living planets, but there was a remarkably dense belt of scattered cometary material, and that had quite a large population. Every bit of ice with enough mass to hold a foot to the surface had its own little kingdom, each with a sovereign queen, and the web of feuds and alliances between each little queendom were incredibly complex. That was one of those times where the team and I wound up in a harem, actually, and didn't Queen Besporil enjoy trotting us out to show off to the girls? Blaytz had a lovely time, of course, but Gyrgan and Zarkon were hot-world types and both of them had miserable colds by the end of things. Trigel struck lucky that time, having been turned over to the queen's gardeners. Those boys were _very_ appreciative.”

“Really?” Lance asked suspiciously.

“Oh, yes,” Coran assured him. “She was tall enough to reach the high branches without having to use a ladder. The boys were artists at topiary, but were very short and terribly afraid of heights.”

“A warm white, definitely,” Zaianne said musingly, ignoring Coran's anecdote, “but very pale, and just touched with pink here and there. You might think about sharpening it up with a bit of that metallic dark bronze piping, just to delineate things and bring up the color of that lovely nut-brown complexion. And just a bit of blue, to bring attention to her eyes. Have you given any thought to that?”

Lance grinned and pulled out a small, flat box. “Oh, yeah, check these out! The auto-tailor has a costume-jewelry file, and I thought these would look really good. Plus, she'd be able to stab someone if they got a little too familiar.”

Coran observed the brooches in the box with delight. “Yes, very much the thing, aren't they? Her mother used to wear the same style when we had problematic types visiting. Pretty, versatile, effective, but not so valuable that she'd be sad if she had to leave a few embedded in someone's face.”

“That's what we're going for,” Lance said, setting the box aside. “Now, what do you think about--”

Zaianne's comm blipped faintly, and she gave it a thin smile when she checked the alert. “Ah. She's here.”

“Who?” Lance asked blankly, and then bumped the heel of his hand against his forehead. “Oh, right! That lady who's going to dance with Lizenne and Modhri. Do I need to make up anything for her?”

Zaianne gestured a negative. “No, she'll already have the costume ready. Just let me alert the team and we can go down to meet her. I'm told that she's a bit prickly, but very good in a fight.”

“Prickly,” as it turned out, wasn't quite the right description. “Aloof” might have been closer, for her expression was cold and her angular features and upright carriage gave her an imperious look, although her large golden eyes were full of curiosity when she stepped out of her aircar. “Refined” might have been the right word, since she gave the impression of having been lathed right down to the quick; there was nothing about her that was not absolutely necessary. Erantha was one of those rare Simadhi-Namturan hybrids whose fur was nearly blue, much like Lotor's, although her coloration was a bit darker—the color of good tanzanite. Her hair was shoulder-length and slightly darker than the rest of her fur, with broad silvery streaks above her ears. Her grassland-loving Namturan forbears had given her their slim, long-legged build, and her Simadhi ancestors had given her their narrow features and cheekbones that you could shave with, and a tight, compact musculature. A lifetime of intensive martial-arts training had pared every microgram of spare flesh from her frame, giving Hunk a secret urge to soften that knife-edged bone structure with many, many cookies. She was beautiful in the same way that a sword was beautiful; finely-crafted, single in purpose, and inherently deadly.

Keith and Lance gulped and stared, and Allura had to poke them both hard in the ribs to keep them from embarrassing her with their doltish expressions. “Greetings, and welcome aboard the Castle of Lions,” Allura said pleasantly over her teammates' yips of surprise and pain. “I hope that you will enjoy your stay with us. Lizenne and Modhri will be along shortly—apparently their ship has sprung a leak somewhere that had to be addressed immediately. May I present to you my friends and fellow Paladins?”

Erantha gave her a regal nod and said in a polite and potently musical voice, “Please do. They are--,” she cast her gaze around like a searchlight, “--not as I had expected.”

Allura giggled, although it sounded just slightly false, even to her ears; for some reason, Keith's and Lance's reaction to this woman made her furious on a deep and dangerous level. “No, we're all terribly irregular, I'm afraid. Some more than others. Keith, stop staring, it's rude, and Pidge looks ready to punch you. That goes double for you, Lance. Shiro, if you would do the honors?”

Shiro couldn't help but smile. It was hard to remember sometimes, but his teammates were all still college-age young adults, with all that that implied. Even Hunk was radiating purity of heart with neutron star-grade gravitic force, which was almost irresistibly attractive, and Pidge and Allura were starting to steam. It was ridiculous, but so very familiar; how many times had he seen it himself at school dances, when the nerdy or plain girls—and boys, too, come to think of it—had polished up and dressed to the nines for the first time ever, and all of the boyfriends and girlfriends had abandoned their popular-kid dates to pay court to the unanticipated beauties in their midst? He personally felt that envy was a bad color choice for his own two female teammates, and he moved quickly to defuse the situation.

Stepping forward, he dipped the small, respectful bow that he'd seen Modhri offer Zaianne on occasion. “I'm Shiro, Paladin of the black Lion. Princess Allura is also black Paladin; that's a long story and we'll tell you all about it later. Over there is Pidge, Paladin of the green Lion; careful, she's half-pirate, half mad scientist. The two leering morons are Keith and Lance, who are the red and blue Paladins, respectively, and the man trying to embody everything bright and good—with some success—is Hunk, the yellow Paladin. Stop that, Hunk, I'm getting a sunburn. You probably already know Zaianne here as a colleague, and this is Coran, seneschal and pilot. Those are the mice. Don't try to step on them.”

“How interesting.” Erantha smiled, a thin, knife-edged expression that served to deflate the boys further, and she gave Pidge and Allura one of those mysterious female looks that told them that she was on their side. “They are younger than I had thought. I expect that you've had your hands full with training them, Zaianne.”

Zaianne smirked at Lance, who was drooping visibly. “I've had a good deal of help. Ah—and here they are. Hold still, the dragons won't hurt you.”

Tilla and Soluk were just suddenly _there_ in the finest tradition of Zampedri's people, and Erantha stayed calm and collected as they sniffed her over. She did smile faintly at the following sneezes and giggling, but her attention was all for the pair who followed them in. She responded to Modhri's polite bow with a graceful half-bow of her own, and the nod she shared with Lizenne was just as profound, if not more so. The two women locked gazes for a long moment, studying each other intently. Whatever Lizenne saw there, she approved of it, and she grinned fiercely at the Blade.

“You,” she said, “are absolutely perfect. Have you played the role of Telchamar before, by any chance?”

Erantha's expression went icy. “I have. I might have been the Empire's greatest performer of such roles, had certain events not taken place. I am related to the Chalep'Thoras on my mother's side, some four generations back.”

Lizenne nodded. “It bred true, which is something to be proud of. Is Simadht's Council aware that two fullbloods of that family still live?”

“Not yet,” Erantha said quietly. “We will wait for the right time to play that card. The Council lost much when that gene-file in the World Bank was destroyed, and they will give much for the opportunity to revive the Lineage. Samples have already been obtained, and are being held in a safe location.”

“Very wise,” Lizenne replied. “Will you wish to test our relative skills immediately, or would you prefer to relax first? I doubt very much that you've spent your time in idleness.”

“Immediately. I'm posing as a fencing master in an elite girl's school,” Erantha said dryly, pulling a Marmoran blade from a concealed scabbard. “As of two hours ago, I was teaching a class; I would enjoy crossing blades with someone who doesn't view the art as a game, or as a useless archaism that their mothers bullied them into. Or--” she sneered, “--as a way to attract boys.”

It was Keith's turn to sag dejectedly, but Hunk was undaunted.

“Just a tick,” Hunk said sharply, waggling a finger at the two Galra ladies. “We've gotta do this right. Give me a moment, I'll go and get some popcorn and scorecards. Coran, did you want a pair of pom-poms?”

“Why, yes, and bring some for everybody else, too, they're in that closet by the game room,” Coran said delightedly. “I haven't been head cheerleader at a knife fight in ages. What fun!”

“Be right back,” Hunk said, and hurried out.

Shiro turned to watch him go, and collected a sharp finger in the ribs from Lance. “That wasn't nice, Shiro,” the blue Paladin hissed. “'Leering morons'? Seriously?”

Unruffled, Shiro smiled in the face of Lance's hurt feelings and Keith's sullen scowl and nodded at their guest, who was examining Lizenne's tambok-fang knife with the same sort of avarice that they'd seen before in Nasty. “Yes. You two were starting to act like sophomores at a prom, and Allura and Pidge didn't like it. It was them or me, guys, and the ladies were starting to look like they wanted blood.”

Keith shot a guilty glance back at Pidge, who skewered him with a Look before turning haughtily away with her nose in the air. Keith winced, which raised one of Lance's eyebrows.

“You never did say how you two perfected that fire-arrow,” Lance said suspiciously.

“Not now, Lance,” Keith sighed.

A few moments later, Hunk came bustling back in, pulling a loaded hover-crate behind him. Three huge buckets of popcorn were pulled out and distributed, as were packets of scorecards and pom-poms, although only Coran was in any way interested in those. Erantha ignored them completely, backing off a fair distance and readying herself for the match. Modhri moved up to the fore of their group and stood watching his wife and the Blade with a pensive look upon his face, and, curious, Shiro and Keith stepped up beside him while the others clustered around the popcorn. Lizenne was watching Erantha intently, swaying slowly, knife in hand.

“She's taking this seriously,” Shiro murmured to Modhri as the two Galra women squared off.

Modhri nodded slightly, a frown lining his brow. “They both are. The dance routine that we're planning is basically two women fighting over a man, and they must know each other's capabilities now, or someone will get seriously hurt later. Besides, Lizenne has something of a reputation, and Erantha wishes to test it.”

Keith gave him a sidelong glance. “She's been holding back on us?”

Modhri smiled. “A bit. You haven't seen her sparring with Zaianne in the envirodeck. She'll enjoy this. For a warrior woman, a challenge from another of that kind is a rare pleasure, and Erantha looks to be a wild heart. We'll have to take her hunting.”

Shiro recalled the yulpadi hunt, and the feast that came after. “I'm not going to complain.”

“Nor I,” Modhri murmured, and then drew in his breath sharply as the two women began to move.

Shiro had seen something like this before, in numerous old movies and anime series. Both combatants took a slow step to one side, and another, eyes locked upon the foe in total concentration. A third step was taken by each, and then a pause; the air sang with tension for a long, humming moment, and then Erantha cannoned forward in an explosive rush that took his breath away. Lizenne, who was more heavily-built than the bone-and-whipcord Blade and was not as fast, vanished with a _snap_ that rang across his senses like a bell. His eyes jerked of their own accord to a spot to the left about fifteen feet away—Lizenne reappeared, whirled, her toe-claws striking sparks from the decking, and leaped forward to engage Erantha in a savage exchange of blows. Shiro stared. He'd never seen anything like that outside of an animated feature before, and hadn't thought it possible in real life. Erantha grinned like a shark and vanished between one strike and the next, and Shiro realized that he could tell the difference between their powers; Lizenne was a hot, wild, golden force. Erantha was light reflecting off of polished steel, brief and blinding and sharp as razors. Not as powerful, perhaps, but she'd spent a lifetime learning to do a lot with a little. Erantha snapped back into being behind and to the right of Lizenne, hurling a handful of what looked to be stars at her. Lizenne shouted something, and the stars were englobed in filmy gold spheres, which then swirled outwards in a sudden spiraling rush at a wave of the witch's hand. They burst with ear-stinging detonations, but that hardly mattered; Erantha had closed with her again, and more sparks were flying as luxite alloy glanced off of tambok ivory.

Shiro swallowed hard on a dry throat and blinked; he glanced over at his team and saw them cheering and scrambling to hold up high enough scores while the dragons and mice dug into the popcorn. Coran was capering madly about, waving pom-poms with wild abandon, and Shiro wondered vaguely what the professional teams back home would have to say about his performance. Zaianne and Modhri were watching in respectful silence, their faces showing a sort of grave pride, eyes shining in admiration.

The fight came to a conclusion not long after that, and in a draw that Shiro recognized with a start. He had stood in the same position once with Ulaz, their blades only millimeters from letting out each other's lives. Images flickered in the back of his mind far too swiftly to grasp, but the overall impression was positive. This was reinforced by Lizenne's crack of breathless laughter as she lowered her knife and shook her head, sending beads of sweat scattering like gems.

“Very good!” she said in an exultant voice. “Very good, indeed. We will give them quite a showing, will we not?”

Erantha drew herself up proudly with a knife-edged smile. “I have killed two Druids before this battle, and we have not shamed our blades in this one. They will speak of our dancing a hundred years from now. Is your man worthy of our efforts?”

Lizenne looked offended at that question, but Modhri merely responded with that incredible smile that instantly made him into everyone's favorite uncle. “I've been told that I am,” he said, beaming. “Am I, my Lady?”

That was a silly question, of course, and even Erantha's aristocratic features had taken on a faintly yearning look. “You are,” she said, getting herself back under control with a visible effort, much to Lizenne's smug satisfaction.

Erantha turned an arch look upon their audience instead, perhaps to ask what their scores were, but other things had happened. Keith, of course, had watched the whole thing in amazement and admiration for their superior skills; unfortunately, the others were fighting the dragons for the last of the popcorn, and Coran was still waving his pom-poms about, humming happily and lost in a little world of his own. The mice had chewed a hole in the bottom of the bucket and were ferrying the fluffy kernels away in a steady stream.

Keith rolled his eyes heavenward. “Sorry.”

Erantha gave Zaianne a sidelong look. “Does this happen often?”

Zaianne chuckled. “We don't stand much on discipline outside of combat situations around here, so yes. Don't worry, Erantha, in battle, they're all business. In the meantime, let them teach you to relax.”

Erantha humphed disapprovingly, but allowed her hosts to lead her toward refreshments.

“You know, I've looked the whole Castle over, and it doesn't have one,” Lance said as he led his team up to his workroom, with Coran and Zaianne following along to watch the fun. “You'd think that any royal establishment would have a runway, but it doesn't. Can't think why.”

“Because it's not a fashion showhouse, Lance,” Allura said with a smile. “If people wanted to show off the latest styles here, they did it in Court, or whenever Mother or Father held a Grand Ball. We would watch them posture and flaunt themselves in front of their rivals, and then laugh about it afterwards. To tell you the truth, some of those lords and ladies lived solely for that sort of competition!”

“We saw that sort of thing back on Earth, too,” Pidge said, making a face. “Heck, in my high school, there were two or three rich girls who used to max out every credit card they could get their hands on, just to show each other up with the newest fashions. Me and the rest of the Math Club once tallied up their total estimated outlay over a semester once, and I could have built my own supersonic aircraft with that sort of money. I still can't believe that people pay that much for shoes. Shoes! Shoes exist to keep pointy things from jabbing you in the feet! Why do people obsess about them like that? And they're not even comfortable shoes half the time!”

Hunk smirked and poked her with a finger. “Nerd.”

She poked him back. “That's _hyper nerd_ to you, pal. Besides, you're just as much of a nerd as I am.”

“Yup!” Hunk said cheerfully. “And I'm a nerd with happy feet. I'm really looking forward to this, guys.”

There was a discontented grumble from Keith, whose feet weren't any happier than the rest of him. They'd done some dance practice earlier that day, since half of their number hadn't done the Hokey-Pokey in years, and the rest hadn't done it, ever. Wild zontars couldn't have dragged it out of the red Paladin, but he'd actually enjoyed it a little—he'd been right next to Tilla, and avoiding her huge spiky head and tail while she turned herself around had been just enough of a challenge to make it worthwhile. The mice had opted to do their dancing atop the dragons' backs, up where they wouldn't get stepped on by mistake. As for the all-inclusive dance, Hunk had merely waved a hand and told them that it didn't really matter. It was really a freestyle sort of thing, and the official moves were dead simple. That was good enough for Lizenne, Modhri, and Erantha, who had gone off to practice their historical dance in the envirodeck, where they wouldn't stab anything too important. Keith would have preferred to join them, but Lance had insisted that they try on their new outfits. Keith was not into fancy dress at all, and was inclined to be surly about it.

“Oh, come now, young man,” Coran said sternly. “Lance did put a great deal of thought into this, and indeed he would have been welcome among the Castle's sartorial staff back in the day. Why, the Palace Guard would have loved to wear some of his little projects, being both stylish and possessing all sorts of possibilities for concealed weapons. Your own mother helped with that, sir, I'll have you know, and frankly, the Marmorans are truly inspirational on that subject. Some of her suggestions surprised even me, to tell you the truth. Were those little adjustments to the bodice and inseams really necessary, Madame?”

Zaianne smirked. “We're up against the Ghamparva, as well as Zarkon's conventional forces, and those monsters see nothing wrong with indulging in behavior that would get them killed in any other line of work. It is our duty to make sure that they get killed in this one, too.”

Shiro cast them an interested look. “You've already got your outfits made up?”

“First come, first served,” Coran replied reasonably. “It's just as well that Alfor sprung for the highest-quality textile fabricator he could find, y'know. Old Angbard wanted the household troops to be a bit better-appointed after the Carlumnians tried to assassinate him, his wife, and his infant son, and Alfor doubled down on that after Allura was born. I think that even then he knew that she'd be an only child. Things might have been different if Melenor had qualified for a Lion, but... well, it never happened.”

“Huh,” Lance said, stealing a glance at Allura. “Did the other teams raise families?”

“Sort of,” Coran said, tugging thoughtfully at his mustache. “Oh, there were children now and again, the Lion-bond being what it was, but the parents themselves didn't really have much time for them. Things were terribly muddled up back then, what with the early Galran Empire trembling on its foundations and scads of others fighting amongst themselves for supremacy. Those teams spent more time in their armor than out of it, to tell you the truth, and they often had to pass their spawn off to their folks back home to be raised. A few of 'em did grow up in the Castle, though, and one of them did wind up piloting the yellow Lion. A good woman, that, a very nice lady, best left leg that Voltron ever had, and made fruit preserves as a hobby. Gyrgan was addicted to her juniberry jelly, I know that. She was the only one who could make the stuff without it having that acid aftertaste.”

Allura sighed, remembering how often her own father had been called away. “At least we are facing a single foe this time, for all that it's a very large one. Well, they haven't been invited to the party, so we should make the most of it. What sort of apparel have you come up with, Lance?”

He grinned eagerly and flung open his workroom doors, beckoning them all inside. “Only the best for you, Allura. Hey, Marco!”

Lance turned aside to rub his evil sewing machine behind its needle array. “Such a good little sewing machine who's worked so hard to make all that awesome stuff for the team!” he cooed at the sinister device. “C'mon, guys, give him a proper thank-you, I couldn't have done this without him.”

None of them argued, and patted the sewing machine one after the other; Coran had showed them the recordings of the battle from their little escapade with the Gantarash ship-clan, and the machine had earned their respect. It whirred happily at their recognition and hummed in contentment when they went to inspect the fruits of its labors. Lance had those hung up on stands at the back of the room, right next to a changing booth, and they looked better than some of them had dared to hope. They looked simple enough, being sleek-looking bodysuits in gleaming black and the intended wearers' signature colors, touched up here and there with accents of what appeared to be flashlight fabric. Two of them had glimmering sweeps of fine, translucent fabric at the waists, enough like skirts to pass.

“Oh, _sweet,”_ Hunk said eagerly, “thanks for not going the tux route, Lance.”

Lance shrugged. “After what happened at the Senior Dance in high school? I can learn from other people's mistakes, and we don't really need the local bigshots to know what color your underwear is. I've got your suspenders and bow tie over here.”

“Oh, great! Gimme.”

Allura cast curious eyes over those accessories, which glittered; the suspenders had been sewn with thousands of coin-sized golden sequins, and the black bow tie showed the subtle shimmer of Thrashar satin. “Coran did say that these outfits had more to them than mere elegance. Would you kindly explain, Lance?”

“Certainly,” Lance said, taking on the air of a professional couturier and indicating a particular garment. “I decided to go with a basic Altean style—minimalist, elegant--”

“Skin-tight,” Pidge added.

“Flexible,” Lance continued, ignoring the heckler, “and supportive. Coran showed me the special settings on the textile maker. It looks and feels like first-quality linen, guys, but it's actually armor. See that sheet of fabric I've got on that frame over there? Fire at will, Marco!”

The sewing machine rose up on its antigravs and fired one of its industrial-grade needles at an embroidery frame sitting on the big worktable; the piece of sky-blue fabric clamped into it barely thrummed as the needle bounced off.

Lance caught the needle easily. “It's something like those suits that the Blades wear. Anybody trying to use small-caliber ballistics and knives on you is gonna be disappointed. Try to stay away from energy weapons or anyone with a laser sword, though. Even then, they're gonna have a bad day—I've put in force-shield generators in the sleeves, and check out the secret pockets! Big enough to hide a bayard in, and they won't ruin the line of the fabric. Keith, I've put in a special sheath at the small of the back, here, so you can take along your pet knife if you want to.”

Keith turned his midnight-and-scarlet suit around to check that feature, and found it to be just about perfect. “How'd you know?”

Lance shrugged and gave the needle back to his sewing machine. “Your mom was swinging that thing around for years before you were born, and she knows every millimeter of it. Oh, and Pidge, if anyone tries to lay a hand on you without permission, just tense your muscles. It'll send a shock through the jerk that'll put him on the floor for hours. Allura, you've got one of those, too.”

Shiro smiled. “Do the rest of us?”

“Yeah, but if you want to turn it off, there's a toggle in the left hip pocket. Personally, I don't mind the odd ass-pat.” Lance grinned at their chuckles. “Ladies, the skirts detach and they're stronger than they look, with independent shock-webbing systems and weighted waistbands. If you need to, you can throttle a guy with them, knock him flat, or use the skirts as a whip. Oh, and speaking of accessories, Allura, you'll want to braid this into your hair.”

He passed her what looked to be a pearly hair comb with three long silken cords adorned with dainty tassels attached to it; it looked pretty enough, but her sensitive fingers caught the prickle of dozens of fine needles hiding beneath the shining surface of the cords. “Whatever for?”

Lance grimaced. “Booby trap. You've got really nice hair, and it's really long. Someone might try to grab it. There was a girl I knew in middle school who had long hair like that, and the other kids were always pulling on it. That stopped when she braided in a cord that she'd stuck full of pins. The school nurse wasn't happy and the Principal gave her a detention, and two kids had to get tetanus shots right away, but they quit bugging her. Mullet, you'll want one of these, too, same reason. Here's a red one.”

Keith's hand shot defensively to his hair. He'd let it grow long in the back, more out of indifference than anything else, and it now reached to just below his shoulderblades in a thick, black waterfall.

Zaianne took the red comb from Lance and examined it with interest. “Ah! Yes, I know these, and have used them before myself. I usually anointed the needles with poison, of course, but we haven't had the time to build up your immunities to the standard kit. Hold still, Khaeth, I want to see how this would look on you.”

“Mom,” Keith groaned in protest, but held still when she caught him by a hank of hair.

“Hush,” Zaianne said, setting in the comb firmly at the back of his head, dividing his hair into three thick plaits and weaving them expertly together. “While I was growing up, one of my elder cousins was a great authority in the fashion industry, and he was always impeccably attired. You have the same sort of hair that he does, long and thick and dark, and he always had ornaments braided up in it. It looked absolutely stunning on him, and he was never without admirers. Hmm. And like him, you're starting to develop those two stripes of lighter purple above the ears.”

“Wait, what?” Keith yelped, trying to turn and see the back of his own head.

“Really?” Hunk said delightedly, “I've gotta see that!”

“Me, too!” Coran said, crowding in for a closer look.

Lance grinned and snatched a folded-up object out of a nearby box. “Hold on, I've got a good light right here!”

Keith soon found himself at the center of a crowd, and wasn't sure what to do about it. “Guys...”

“Oh, that's nice,” he heard Shiro say. “The red cord really brings it up, doesn't it?”

Allura giggled. “It does. You can't see it unless it's under a bright light, but there it is. Very attractive, actually.”

“His eyebrows are going purple, too,” Pidge put in cheerfully, “and check out his eyes!”

Keith found his chin being gripped in Hunk's hand, and saw everyone crowding around for a peek. He had a sudden urge to go cross-eyed at them, or to explode with anger, but his outrage dissolved into something like confusion when Shiro brushed his hair away from his face with a strong, gentle hand, and gave him a smile that was full of affection.

“ _Nice,”_ Hunk said admiringly. “If I'd had eyes like that, getting a girlfriend would have been a lot easier. You've got some really good genes there, Keith.”

Keith was blushing. He  _knew_ that he was blushing, and he couldn't stop, not even when Lance handed off his handlight to Pidge and crammed the red-and-black suit into Keith's arms.

“Okay, Keith, get in there and try that on,” Lance commanded, indicating the changing booth. “That hair ornament is nice, but it doesn't go with the jeans or the jacket. Here's your shoes, too—nice sturdy half-boots with good arch support, and a nice solid heel that's good for both dancing and curb-stomping. Guys, the boots have a built-in sheath on the outside ankle in case you want to stick a small knife or a stun-wand or something in there, just in case. Get moving, Keith, I want to see everybody in their party dresses, and you get to be first this time.”

Too flummoxed to refuse, Keith complied. Even he had to admit that Lance was very good at what he did after a few minutes; the suit fit like a glove and so did the boots, and when he emerged, he did so to enthusiastic applause, complete with wolf whistles.

“Stylin',” Hunk said, pulling his own suit from its stand. “Me next!”

When Hunk came out of the booth, he did so resplendently; there was no other word for it. Modest though the cut of the suit was, it showed off his powerful build beautifully; the suspenders, flashy though they were, were not overdone in the slightest, and the bow tie added just the right touch.

Lance smiled proudly. “The suspenders are mostly for decoration, but I made them good and strong. You'll be able to make a pretty good slingshot out of them if you have to, Hunk, or use them as a rope ladder.”

“Hey, traditional,” Hunk said, adjusting his tie. “Does this thing have any surprises?”

“A small but powerful EMP bomb hidden in the knot,” Lance grinned. “Coran's idea. Just take it off, give the bow's loops a good yank, and then throw it at the machine you want to kill. Don't use it until you have to, Hunk, 'cause it's the only one I had left—Zaianne stole the rest, and I think she gave most of them to Erantha.”

“I'd never seen them that compact,” Zaianne admitted, and without any shame whatsoever. “Erantha's very skilled at constructing and designing such devices, and I wanted to give her plenty of material to work with. If she's half as good as I think she is, Lance, she'll be back soon with a crate full of freshly-made ones for you to play with.”

“And I'll want a share of those,” Coran declared firmly. “Every little bit helps, you know, and every fallen Sentry is a Sentry that you lot won't have to waste energy on.”

“I like that idea,” Pidge said, pulling her own suit off of its stand. “My turn, right?”

“Yeah—oops, or maybe not. Shiro just beat you to it.”

Shiro's training sessions with Zaianne had made him very light on his feet, and he'd retrieved his suit and had slipped into the booth while everyone was busy admiring Hunk. He'd worn uniforms for much of his life, both school and military, and had dressed for utility rather than show during his time as a space hero. His romance with Adam had revealed a secret love for dressing up hidden in his psyche, and one that he'd kept private; it was still there, however, and the sight of two of his teammates looking so very fine was irresistible. When he stepped out of the booth, it was to a very gratifying moment of awed silence.

“Lance... holy cow, man,” Hunk said.

Zaianne's training sessions had also been building up layers of hard muscle on Shiro's frame. Lance had chosen a flashlight fabric for the color accents on his suit that glimmered a glorious blue-purple whenever he moved, and edged them with bright silver piping. The effect, to say the least, was stunning.

Keith heaved a long sigh. “Why did we have to agree on the 'Hokey-Pokey'? Nobody Hokey-Pokeys while looking that good.”

Zaianne chuckled. “When one looks that good, anything one does immediately becomes excellent, even the Hokey-Pokey. We might set a trend. Allura, your turn. We had a terrible time picking out the right colors for your suit, and I want to see whether or not we chose correctly.”

Lance pulled down Allura's suit and handed it to her, and she entered the booth eagerly. A few minutes later, she stepped out again as the very picture of elegance. The textiles that Lance had chosen rippled with a subtle, nacreous iridescence, highlighted by the bronze piping that edged it. Her skirt was a gleaming sweep of translucent, pearly silk that shimmered down to the right knee and swept up in a series of pleats like fairy wings to the left hip, where it was fastened with an ornate brooch of pearls and silk flowers, with long tassels to match the hairpiece. Lance presented her with the box of brooches that he'd made up for her earlier, and once those were properly applied, the effect was everything that they could have hoped for.

“Lovely,” Coran gushed, “utterly lovely! Your own mother couldn't have wished for better, Princess, and it's a damned shame that we've left that pack of young Dukes and Princes some ten thousand years in the past. You would have had them hypnotized, so you would, and gotten yourself an entourage of adoring young men to hang upon your every word and whim.”

Allura ran admiring fingers over the fine tailoring with a smile. “I'm perfectly happy with the ones I have now, Coran, and they're a great deal more self-sufficient. Have you given any thought to the others, Lance?”

Lance, who had been mildly hypnotized by the vision of loveliness standing before him, shook himself out of it and smiled. “Huh? Oh, yeah. I managed to fit the mice with these nice little tailcoat things out of the same armor-fabric, and they've got the zap function, too. If they have to run up someone's pant legs... well, if he's built anything like we are, pity him. Lizenne says that she'll take care of herself, Modhri, and the dragons. Erantha's got her own dancewear, so I don't have to worry about her. Zaianne's already got one of these suits in burgundy, and... wow. Your dad was a lucky man, Keith. Coran's got one in dark blue that really sets off his coloring.”

Coran smiled happily and twirled his mustache. “It does, at that, and it'll look even better when I add my honors. I've got quite a lot of medals and badges of rank that need dusting off and polishing up. More or less meaningless now, some of 'em, but I can't help it if the authorities that awarded them have vanished into the mists of time. Some are still valid enough, though.”

Allura gave him a sidelong look. “Like that dreadfully ornate thing you got when you won the Brenarillow All-Comers Pie-Eating Competition?”

Coran sniffed. “They had supplied whafflet-cream pies, you know. I'd always said that I had a bottomless appetite for whafflet cream, and I proved it. Was sick for three days afterward, but that doesn't signify. I'll prove it again, if I have to, and I'll defy any fashionista to diminish that achievement.”

Pidge glared at him and nudged the others out of the way. “Maybe later. My turn, guys.”

“Go for it,” Lance replied, bowing her into the changing booth.

Pidge got her own share of applause when she came out. The team tended to think of her as something of a gremlin most of the time, being small, prankish, scruffy-looking, and liable to get up to strange and mysterious things in her lab. Now, in an outfit that hugged her compact and unexpectedly curvaceous body, the correct word for her was _elfin._ The green accents were just the right hue to bring out the bright amber of her eyes and the rich honey-color in her hair. The skirt shimmered gold-green-gold whenever she moved, and had a braided waistband with an extra surprise hidden in it.

“I had help with that, too,” Lance admitted, lifting the trio of large, glinting green gems that hung from the hip-brooch. “It's a smart suit. If you have to, you can undo the braiding to reveal the power and data cords, and here--” He pressed a hidden stud and the gems popped in half, showing a trio of universal adapters. “Plug those into any computer system and toggle that little stud on the right elbow, and you'll be able to jack right in. Zaianne says that it's similar to Blade hacker-tech, and apparently there was something like that for Altean agents as well, because the fabricator ran these up with no trouble. Basically, your whole upper garment is a wearable computer.”

“Cool,” Pidge said with a fearsome grin, reminding them all that elves could be evil, too. “I've always wanted something like that. Do I get an independent power pack if I can't find an outlet?”

Lance lifted up the petals of the rather extravagant silk flower, revealing a small, glowing disc. “Six hours of continuous runtime, if you're taking over the whole building. Heh. All your base are belong to us?”

Pidge cackled. “Oh, yeah. Every last one, Lance. Their security systems and data archives will be mine!”

Hunk laughed and caught her up in a hug. “Oh, wow! Pidge, you are so cute when you're setting out to take over the world. We all look so awesome! Thanks, Lance, you're the best.”

“Any day, Hunk,” Lance said proudly, and then snapped his fingers. “I almost forgot. Since I was making stuff for everybody anyway, I stole some time last night to finish up a previous project. Check this out, guys—it took me ages to dig this out of storage, but I think that it was worth it. Purillian ultraplush.”

Lance turned away and pulled open a cabinet, retrieving something golden-brown and very, very fluffy. When he shook it out, Hunk let out a delighted _“Oooh!”_ at the universe's best possible teddy-bear pajamas. “My PJ's! Oh, _nice!_ I've gotta try this on right now, guys, the dancewear is great, but oh, wow, _this.”_

So saying, Hunk zipped right back into the booth. Lance turned with a smile to bring out another extremely fluffy garment, this one in a soft gray. “And one for you, too, Pidge. I wasn't kidding about the mousie suit.”

She gave him an arch look, but extended a hand to get a feel of the fabric anyway. “Lance, you were really drunk, and—ooh, so fuzzy! It's fuzzy on the inside, too! Oh, wow, Hunk, are you done in there, yet? Never mind, move over!”

Despite the fact that there couldn't possibly have been room for both of them in there, she slid in behind the curtain in a twinkling; a moment later, her fancy party wear came back out without her in it to land in a heap on the floor. Lance gave an offended squawk and snatched it up before anyone could step on it and hung it back up on its stand.

“I worked really hard on that, Pidge,” he said in an injured voice. “Have some respect for the masterpiece, will you?”

Pidge laughed, sounding rather muffled. “You sound like my mom, Lance. She says that I displayed my status as a techno-nerd by thinking that the floor was my closet, and she gave up on making me wear frilly dresses when I was six. I am not a frilly person. Ooof—watch your leg, Hunk!”

Hunk came out of the booth backwards, rolling gently along like a happy panda and struggling with the hood of his pajamas. Pidge tumbled out a moment later, equally fluffy and looking ridiculously pleased about it. Hunk, once he'd gotten his teddy-bear ears straight, was absolutely delighted.

“I love these PJ's!” he declared. “They're all warm and soft and fluffy, and— _oh, my god, Pidge, you are the cutest thing ever!_ Hold still, I've gotta hug you again.”

Pidge laughed as she was swallowed up in, yes, a huge bear hug. “Hunk, you're acting like Matt.”

“Oh, really?” Hunk asked, nuzzling her hood between the big round mousie ears. “How come?”

Pidge sighed and rolled her eyes at the memory. “It was something he used to do if he thought I was being too serious. He'd start yelling that he was the Cuddle-Monster from Planet Velcro, and hug everyone in sight.”

Hunk drew in an awed breath. _“Genius._ I will follow in his footsteps. Hear that guys? I am the Cuddle-Monster from Planet Velcro, and I will conquer the universe with hugs!”

He was on his feet again before he'd finished speaking, and had wrapped his arms around Lance and Allura, squeezing them happily before dropping them and pouncing on Shiro. Lance laughed breathlessly and shouted. “Run, Keith, run! Save yourself!”

Keith tried, he really did, but Hunk on a hug-rampage was unstoppable; Keith soon found himself to be caught up in an inescapable glomp, which, he had to admit, was wonderfully plush. Zaianne didn't even try to dodge, and Coran took his hug as his due.

“Yes, yes, very nice,” Coran declared, giving Hunk a pat on the head. “Quite a lot nicer than the last one, actually. Very cuddly. Do keep it up.”

“The... last one?” Shiro asked.

“Oh, goodness, yes. Hunk here isn't the only one out to cuddle the cosmos into submission, or wasn't, anyway.” Coran smiled nostalgically. “Had to be, oh, eight or nine decaphebes after Alfor and his lads qualified for the Lions. We got a distress call from the planet Zwinnet. More of a large moon, really, terraformed to suit the tastes of the Makwanthi Royals and converted into a private resort for them. They had a big, fuzzy, blue monster bashing around the gardens and squeezing the locals until they popped, sort of thing. Not a fatal injury, just embarrassing—the Makwans were a sort of blimp-like folk, looked like big clusters of bubbles when they were traveling, and could inflate and deflate at will. All the same, the beast was a terrible nuisance, and quite large, so they had us come by to deal with it. Turned out to be someone's escaped pet, to tell you the truth. A pedigreed Hupcan eblorip, which had managed to get into a barrowload of hlessit weeds, which had the usual result of making it grow to a giant size.”

“You are making that up,” Pidge accused.

Coran sniffed primly. “I am being no less honest then usual. In any case, eblorips make quite good pets. Had a couple of 'em myself when I was a lad. They're a pretty color and are very affectionate, and don't get much bigger than knee-high. It's just that a gutful of hlessit weeds makes them expand enormously, and it gives 'em ambitions. That poor thing didn't mean to burst everyone's bubbles, it was just trying to be friendly. Nearly throttled Zarkon though. He'd been eating baked paslen, and eblorips just love paslen.”

“It's true, actually,” Allura giggled. “One of my cousins had three, and they were forever getting into his neighbor's vegetable garden. It was a contest of wills that kept the entire neighborhood riveted for months—eblorips can use simple tools and climb very well, and they're a good deal smarter than most people give them credit for. Quite aside from all of that, Lance, where's your suit? I can't believe that you might have forgotten to make yours.”

Lance waved a reassuring hand. “It's not quite done yet, that's all. I just really wanted to see if yours fit right. We're going to rock the house tomorrow night... um. Assuming that we can get Pidge and Hunk out of their new pajamas.”

Both of them glared at him defiantly.

Shiro sighed, but turned his attention to Allura. “We're going to want to take our bayards along, of course. Will you be carrying the black bayard, Allura, or should I?”

There was an awkward pause. They had all known that it would come to this sooner or later. None of the Lions had ever had more than one pilot at a time, and no spare bayards had ever been made. They were very much a part of their corresponding Lions, and therefore a part of the Paladins themselves; giving them up for any reason was difficult. The fact that Shiro was doing his best to be polite about it did not really help all that much. Allura heaved a long breath and made the difficult decision.

“Why don't you take it tomorrow night?” she said with only a twinge of discomfort. “I am well-trained in several styles of weaponry, and can get something similar from the Royal Armory. I don't anticipate that we'll have much trouble at the dance, so I shouldn't be inconvenienced.”

Shiro was well-aware of the sacrifice she was making, and nodded. “I appreciate it. How many armories does the Castle have, anyway? I saw one when you showed us the Paladin armor for the first time, and Coran mentioned another after we dealt with the Gantarash.”

“Three,” Coran said promptly. “The one you saw was the old ready room, really, although it was mostly used to show the gear off to foreign delegates. Voltron was pretty much the flashiest bit of battle technology out there, and a lot of people wanted a closer look at those who operated it. The second one was mostly for the household guard until Alfor decided to convert most of the room into a memorial space for the armor of the previous teams. Didn't really have room for 'em anywhere else. The third one's the Royal Armory; quite a few of Allura's relatives and most of her ancestors were of a bold and courageous nature, and could thump a foe with the best of them.”

Keith gave Coran a narrow look. “I thought you guys were pacifists.”

Coran returned his suspicious glare with a sly smile. “Ah. Young man, we have reached one of those rare spots where Altean philosophy and Galran philosophy parallel each other perfectly: There is nothing quite as peaceful as a dead troublemaker.”

“Wisdom,” Zaianne agreed. “I should like to see the Armory for myself, actually. Do you mind if I tag along?”

Allura smiled, seeing interested looks from the rest of her team. “Not at all. Let's get back into our regular clothing first, please. Some of the items in the Armory react badly when something snags on them. Who knows? We may even find you a secondary weapon, Shiro.”

The Royal Armory was as large and well-appointed as befitted the rulers of a large interstellar Kingdom, complete with banners proclaiming a long and complex heraldry, richly ornamented display cases, and the odd bit of commemorative statuary. One piece in particular had been placed in the precise center of the room upon a massive plinth, where it was sure to attract the attention of anyone who entered. It certainly got a reaction out of Lance.

“Holy crow!” the blue Paladin squawked. “What is _that?”_

“Hmm?” Coran glanced up at the imposing figure indifferently; he'd seen the thing regularly over the course of his career, had studied the history of the statue during his Academy years, and the first time he'd seen it had been while he was still in elementary school. Indeed, his early nightmares would have been quite formless without it. “Oh, that? It's just a statue, Lance. That was one of Allura's ancestors, about twenty or thirty generations back, old Farolgrave the Belligerant. He's shown here dressed in his Gronsday best, in a properly heroic stance.”

Lance boggled at him. “Gronsday best _what,_ Coran?”

“Best battle armor, of course. Altea was a little bit of a mess at the time, politically speaking.” Coran waved a proud hand at the marble depiction of a battlesuit that looked as though it could not only subdue a rival civilization all by itself, but eat it for lunch as well. “Farolgrave's family estate was based in a volcanic badland in the middle of a desert—I did tell you about the boiling-hot rocks falling from the sky, didn't I? Never rained anything so tame as water over there, I guarantee it. All the habitations in the area were subterranean. Good mining territory, though, and his people never lacked for sources of energy. Geothermal, of course, had to use up a fair amount of that or the whole region would've blown up. After a few ambitious neighbors tried to separate him from his throne, Farolgrave decided to put a stop to that sort of nonsense. He's also known as the Uniter, and he basically built himself up a nice big army and went and bashed the rest of the world into submission. Grand old chap, but didn't have much of a sense of humor.”

“No kidding,” Pidge said, squinting at the massive hulk of the battlesuit as if trying to figure out if she could build one of her own.

“Nope, he was a grouch to the last, I'm afraid. By the time that people got around to thinking about immortalizing him in stone like this, he was a bit past his prime—he'd put his foot down about bad sculptors, you see, and decreed that no statuary would be commissioned until an artist of sufficient skill and talent popped up to do the job.”

“I take it that this wasn't done from life,” said Shiro, who had heard enough of Coran's anecdotes by now to know how those little tales went.

“It would've been a bit hard to have done that, yeah,” Coran concurred. “He'd been dead for two hundred decaphebes by the time that the sculptor was chosen. Wartime tends to be a bit hard on the art community.”

Hunk stared at the statue, which sat there radiating silent menace. “This, from a race of diplomats?”

“We had to start somewhere,” Allura said. “His daughter Dremalla was better at diplomacy than he was—she only hit the delegates over the head with a big dirty stick half the time. Farolgrave just hit everyone until they did what he told them to do. The family kept on improving upon Dremalla's technique over the following centuries, and eventually got quite good at it. We hardly had to hit anyone at all by the time Grandfather was born.”

Coran smiled proudly at her. “And with only a small, quite clean stick at that. Used to be a ceremonial sort of thing, back in Father's day. There it is, in fact, in that case over there, the rod with the gilding peeling off on one end. Don't look at me like that, progress is progress, people, and besides, I can think of twenty-nine civilizations where hitting someone with a big dirty stick is still considered a valid part of good diplomatic procedure.”

“So can I,” Zaianne said with a smile of her own. “I even got to visit one once. That was one of my more enjoyable missions. I had the biggest, dirtiest stick in the room, and everyone stayed well out of my way. Where are the small arms kept?”

“Right over there,” Coran said, pointing off to the right. “Come on, everyone, ignore the statue. It's not going to come down off of the plinth and chase you around the room or anything.”

“Right,” Keith said in a tone of voice that stated that he didn't entirely believe the Altean. “What happened to the original battlesuit?”

“Hmm? Oh, that.” Coran shrugged and headed off down an aisle. “It was being kept at Tap'bi!Plequa Springs back on Altea. Well, I say 'kept', but it was more like 'immovably wedged into an old lava flow'. Farolgrave had to sacrifice the thing to stop up a breach in a lava tube before it toasted off a major urban center. He was a bit miffed about that. He'd just gotten it all polished up for a festival scheduled for the following weekend. Had to attend the event in one of the newer models, and he hadn't quite gotten the hang of the controls yet. Wound up knocking over a row of market stalls, crushed a fountain that was well-known for being the nation's ugliest, and couldn't find the switch that turned off the windshield wipers. He had to do the entire ceremony with the things waggling at him and was in a sour mood about it for days.”

“How do you know all of this?” Lance asked, glancing back nervously at the statue.

“Because it's all recorded in Coran's family archives,” Allura said with a smile. “One of his ancestors was Farolgrave's boon companion, and his family has been closely associated with mine ever since. Their memoirs make for very interesting reading. That's something that you all might consider doing as well—adding your own voices to the records, so that future historians can hear of your exploits in your own words. I've been keeping a journal ever since we came out of the cryopods.”

“It's something to consider,” Shiro said thoughtfully, and then a particular case caught his eye. “That looks promising.”

“Good eye,” Coran said, indicating not just one, but four long cases holding racks of small, efficient weapons and devices. “See anything you might like, Princess?”

Curious, both Allura and the rest of her team stared at the items on display, some of which were very strange. There was a sizable selection of handguns, of course, and numerous sets of small edged weapons. Compact little devices that had been designed for covert use stood in profusion along those shelves, ranging from tiny sonic grenades to a needle gun no larger than Pidge's thumb. Boxes of tiny explosives rubbed cheeks with pocket interrogation kits; force-shield generators that could be tucked into the cuff of one's sleeve or under a lapel sat next to things that looked for all the world like magic wands. There were also odd things that folded and unfolded into stranger things, and some of them were larger than others.

“Coran, what's this?” Keith asked, pointing at an object that took up most of one lower shelf. “It looks like a swiss-army battle hammer.”

“Aha! Nice find,” Coran said after bending down to look. “That's a historical piece, by the way, the Million-Use Mallet of Duke Mobrio the Vexed. It was said that he could do just about anything with it, from bashing his way through a wall to sewing up holes in his trousers. It was his own invention, of course, and one that he'd made on a bet.”

“Impressive,” Pidge said with proper admiration for a really versatile tool. “Did he do a lot of this sort of thing?”

“Yes, actually, or sort of,” Coran said, twiddling his mustache nostalgically. “The man was a bit of an engineer. More of a gadgeteer, really, and some called him a mad scientist. He wasn't mad, just mildly vexed, hence the title. Most of his inventions were a good deal more, shall we say, _extravagant_ than that one. One of his friends had bet him three casks of best-quality numvill that he couldn't build something that _wasn't_ a unitasker, and that couldn't be used to destroy whole space stations all in one go. Well, Mobrio won the bet, as you can see. Rather a remarkable gentleman. Had the best maniacal laugh in the region, too. They checked.”

Hunk smiled at a display of small stunners. “Yeah, we've had a few like that. The last really good one we had was Nikola Tesla, and he was into electricity. He just didn't feel right if something wasn't going zap nearby, and he almost managed to build a death ray, but the technology of the time wasn't advanced enough to make it work. He was a little weird though—he didn't get angry at all when other inventors stole his work, and he fell in love with a pigeon.”

Coran glared suspiciously at him. “You're making that up.”

“God's own truth, Coran,” Hunk replied, and then pointed at a small crystal chest stuffed into one corner of a bottom shelf. “Hey, what are these?”

Allura bent down for a closer look and drew in a sharp breath. “Coran! Are these what I think they are?”

Coran peered at the case and choked in shock. “They are! If their power cells are still good... my goodness, how did they wind up here? There was a terrible kerfuffle after they were stolen, and quite a lot of time was wasted in tearing the labs apart for any trace of the thief. Let me just get this thing open--”

Coran slapped his palm down on the keypad and hauled the chest out the moment that the panel opened. Inside lay five surprisingly familiar objects. Zaianne's eyebrows lifted in surprise as Coran lifted one out, and she wasn't alone in that. “Prototype bayards?” she asked.

“Spot on as always, Madame,” Coran said, fiddling with something inside the grip. “They're not as powerful or as versatile as the final product, and they won't do a whit of good with the Lions. There just wasn't enough hantalurium left over from building the Lions to waste on experimental models, d'you see, but the scientists of the time managed to come up with something nearly as good. They did tend to burn through their batteries rather quickly, though. I'm pretty sure that we've got some spare power cells somewhere... aha. Right here in the box.”

“Father told me once that there had been several attempts to steal the scientific data involved in the making of the armor and bayards,” Allura explained, showing them another of the prototypes; it was a simple grip with none of the elegant sculpting or bright colors of the bayards themselves, but it was nonetheless a competent-looking device. “There were all sorts of warlike peoples and extremist groups out there, all desperate for any edge over their enemies that they could beg, borrow, or steal. These prototypes performed very well in the testing phases, and there was some talk about equipping our own armed forces with them.”

There was a click and a sharp hum as Coran's prototype came to life, producing a long, slender blade of white energy. He swung it experimentally a few times, and struck a pose. “Quite right. The Captain of the Guard was all for it, of course, even though it would have put a bit of a dent in the budget. Swordsmanship was very fashionable in those days, so you're out of luck if you want a handgun or a grappling-hook. Nonetheless, they were better than anything else on the market at the time, and then some miserable oaf made off with these. No idea who, or why they might have hidden them here and then never returned for them. That was well before Alfor was out of early training. Before he'd even met the others, to tell the truth. Here, take a swing or two, Shiro. It's not the same, but it's close enough.”

Shiro took the sword, and smiled at the familiar feel of the grip in his hand. The blade was longer than he was used to, and the grip was slightly heavier than the black bayard, but it would do him very well. He practiced a short string of _katas_ with it until he had the feel of it, and then thumbed a small switch on the guard that shut the sword down with a quiet whirr. “Nice. Can the power cells be recharged?”

“Presumably,” Coran said, peering into the chest. “The thief didn't take the charger, but I would suspect that Pidge and Hunk can whip something up for you. Still need to find something for Allura, though.”

“Already done, Coran,” Allura said with satisfaction, pulling a smaller and somewhat more streamlined grip from a different shelf. “I've finally found where Mother hid the laser-whips. She said that they weren't a suitable weapon for a Lady of rank. That didn't stop me from bribing the Master of Arms into teaching me how to use them anyway. Again, not quite as good as a bayard, but good enough, and easily concealed in our party wear.”

Pidge grinned. “Gotta have the right accessories to really make an impression. Tomorrow night is going to be _fun.”_

“We can certainly hope so,” Zaianne said.

Keith rolled his eyes, but didn't dignify the situation with words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you to everybody who comments and/or leaves kudos. It warms the cockles of our cold dead hearts to know that people are reading this and enjoying it.


	16. Preliminaries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small part of this chapter is dedicated to MaryMorningBell. You'll know it when you see it, though it might not be quite what you hoped for, and we hope you enjoy it. We have a more in-depth idea for later, though...

Chapter 16: Preliminaries

Modhri stirred the embers of the fire and listened to the song of the Zampedran night, wishing absently that he had the gift for poetry. He simply did not have the words to describe that subtle chorus, from the wind whistling through the grasses to the bell-like chirps of the nocturnal insects, nor could he properly convey the imagery of the blue-leaf trees swaying in the wind or the stars glittering in the wake of the two crescent moons. How could he describe the wild beauty of the hunting-calls of the small predators that made their home here? It wasn't even a complete chorus, since the envirodeck wasn't hosting the larger beasts of the prairie just now, and Tilla and Soluk were keeping a respectful silence. No, he need not listen for the reverberating roars of a tambok or the long, mellow hoots of a herd of thratamnae on the move. He listened now for the sounds of an alien conflict, or better yet, alien cooperation. He smiled into the fire's warm golden glow. It depended on how wild a heart their guest possessed, and while he was not averse to heading back up to the _Chimera's_ kitchen to prepare their supper, there was something deeply satisfying about roasting a fresh kill over an open fire.

Faintly and far away, he heard a beloved voice raised in a triumphant whoop that he knew very well, and a keening, predatory call that made him smile again to hear the joy in it. It was so rare for the common folk of any of the Galra worlds to be able to hunt as their ancient ancestors had, these days. The need was still there, down in the blood and the bone and the deep places of the soul, and it so often went unaddressed. A short, sharp bark echoed off of the darkened air, and shortly after that, an answering _gronk_ from one of the dragons. Modhri built up the fire a bit and reached into the rock hollow for the little lockbox of herbs and spices that he kept there; he would be cooking under the stars tonight.

A little time later, the ladies returned, an atinbuk slung on a pole between them. They looked tired but triumphant, and the pair of dragons coming up behind them looked almost comically hopeful. In keeping with the archaic atmosphere, he bowed formally to the huntresses and murmured, “Matriarch; Lady of the Hunt. May I have the privilege of preparing the kill?”

“You may, for the good of the Pack,” Lizenne replied, giving him the equally archaic response, and she and Erantha handed off the carcass and sat down with sighs of satisfaction. He'd prepared a kettle of hantic tea and set it to cool a little, along with a pair of cups, and they drank deeply while he examined the fruits of their labors. Most of the work had already been done for him, thankfully, the meat carved from the bones and bundled up in the hide, along with both of the hearts. He glanced at Tilla, who was looking just a little pouty; Tilla loved atinbuk organ meats, and it must have taken a good bit of persuasion to make her give up the best morsels. Still, it was traditional. A Matriarch always welcomed a new female ally into her Pack's territory in the ancient days by hunting with her, and then sharing the best portions of whatever they caught. These days, that tradition was satisfied with a decorous lunch date. Modhri preferred the old way. So thinking, he retrieved the hearts and a generous cut of haunch meat and began seasoning them with an herbal mix that was one of his personal favorites.

After a time, as fragrances rose from the roasting meat, Lizenne stretched out long legs comfortably and asked, “Well?”

Erantha sipped at her tea. “You were right. I did need this. It brings a great deal into perspective. It isn't at all like carrying out a mission, is it?”

Lizenne chuckled. “An assassination doesn't usually involve eating the target. I feel a little guilty about leaving the others out of this hunt, but it was necessary. We will take what we don't eat tonight to Hunk with a sincere apology. He's been wanting to make what he calls 'hamburgers' for some time, and atinbuk is amenable to that sort of cookery.”

Modhri delicately lifted the skewers from the grill he'd set up over the fire and handed the ladies the hearts. “It is indeed,” he said quietly, “and I don't doubt that he'll make everybody too happy to object to missing this hunt. It was only a little one, after all.”

Erantha took a bite from the Zampedran delicacy and savored the rich flavor for a long moment before speaking again. “Small, but significant. You go to great lengths to make me welcome.”

Modhri nodded. “A decision that we made some time ago, and not just between the two of us. You are aware that Tilla and Soluk here represent the native people of Zampedri, and a very ancient and wise people at that?”

“So I have been told,” Erantha concurred. “It is... difficult for me to believe that they gave it all up to become animals again.”

Lizenne shook her head. “That isn't quite correct. Their regression is a matter of shape only; their minds are unchanged, aside from allowing their instincts a little more freedom. If these two seem a little beastly, it's because they're still young. The Elders are several orders of magnitude above them in power, wisdom, and skill.”

“ _Gronk,”_ Soluk protested mildly.

Lizenne smiled, divided what was left of her roasted atinbuk heart in two, and tossed it to the dragons. “Well, you are, dear. You're hardly more than five hundred years old, and the youngest of the Elders is four times that age. You're well ahead of me, and that's enough for the three of us.”

Tilla swallowed the coveted morsel and licked Lizenne's ear affectionately.

“The dragons became aware of our people a very long time ago, and of how much power our witches could throw around,” Modhri continued calmly, pulling the roast off of the grill and slicing it neatly onto a trio of plates. “They took an interest, and kept an eye on us, and eventually decided to teach a select few the secrets of _Tahe Moq._ Most notably, Queen Zaianne of Namtura. Our people can be taught, and taught well; unfortunately, we tend to involve ourselves in a very violent style of politics.”

“The Sisterhood War,” Erantha said with a grimace of distaste. “One of my early tutors was obsessed with that piece of history, and I learned more about it than I could have possibly wished.”

Lizenne nodded gravely. “That sort of thing might have gone out of fashion eventually; Modhri the Wise and his descendants certainly did their best to find alternatives to our racial habit of internecine warfare. Unfortunately, in the aftermath, the lingering chaos allowed an assassin to wipe out more or less all of the practitioners that the Queen had passed her knowledge to. I am not sure, but what little evidence has survived to this day suggests that Haggar had a hand in that slaughter. I know for a fact that Haggar herself knows a few of the techniques. Enough to have perverted them utterly, in any case. She has also been very carefully killing or converting into Druids every single strong witch that she can get her hands on, and has been at it for the past ten millennia. As a result, the overall aetheric strength of the race has diminished, while her own power has grown. She's made attempts on me and on the Paladins that have come far too close to succeeding.”

Erantha gave Lizenne a narrow look as she accepted a laden plate from Modhri. “Your arrival upon Zampedri changed something. According to what the Blade knows of you, you have made some sort of pact with them.”

Lizenne nodded. “The Elders have decided to try again. Something that Haggar did a very long time ago wound up corrupting both her and Zarkon completely; according to my own research and the records kept in the Castle's data bank, they are very different now from what they were in the beginning. Some of that change might be attributed to the destruction of Golraz, but not all of it, and the results have spread a slow corruption throughout the rest of our civilization. It was no accident that I sought refuge from my family upon Zampedri, Erantha. They needed a young, strong, independently-minded witch to train in their own art, and who would, in time, train others.”

Erantha munched thoughtfully on her dinner and stared up at the simulated night sky. “It did not work out that way, I feel. You encountered the Paladins, and everything changed. Everything. They have come out of nowhere like a rogue planet through a solar system, pulling everything out of its proper order with the force of its presence alone. All who have come into contact with even the littlest of them have had their lives changed totally! Less than a year ago, there was no Ghost Fleet, and three years ago, my own Order was barely holding its own against the Ghamparva.”

Modhri took a sip of tea from his own cup and smiled fondly. “You are not wrong. Some days, I'm surprised that I can hear anything over their thundering destiny. As a result, the plans have changed. The Elder Dragons have decided to spread their focus a bit. Draconic society is pack-oriented, much like ours is, or was. They are now far more open to the idea that Lizenne might establish a Pack upon their world, and have come to share her opinion that the Blade of Marmora, already an elite group of warriors, might be a good addition to the family. They are cautious, of course, and while Kolivan sealed the alliance here with that yulpadi hunt, it will take some time to ease the Order properly into Zampedri itself. The envirodeck is an embassy, in its way; a safe zone where all parties may become used to the idea.”

Erantha frowned. “All of that is peripheral, isn't it? What matters now is Voltron, and the actions of the Paladins in the near future. Even that silly dance party tomorrow is significant somehow, I can feel it. Something is happening, something much larger than all of us, and it is aimed directly at the Emperor and his witch! I can feel it pulling me in as well, and all the rest of the Blade with me. It is... not something that I am comfortable with.”

Lizenne refilled her cup. “If it makes you feel any better, I've thrown a few temper tantrums about it myself. I would have been perfectly happy to stay upon Zampedri with Modhri for the rest of our lives, learning strange magic and raising a family in peace. It seemed such a trivial thing to have a pair of aliens pop up on my doorstep while I was cooking lunch that day, and while it enlivened the afternoon to invite them in and give them some necessary information, I truly felt that they were a passing thing. I thought that I could simply let them go, and continue in my studies while the rest of the universe enjoyed all of their chaos without me. Destiny's hooks had already been set, Erantha, the moment that we met, and I felt the pull of them very sharply indeed when Pidge asked me to find her father and brother! Modhri, have I ever told you how much I admire and envy your ability to accept such things? You've never complained about any of this.”

He gave her the loving smile that never failed to melt her heart. “I knew that it was coming.”

_That_ surprised both his lady and the Blade. “How?” Erantha breathed.

“When I was a ship's captain, one of my subordinates took a dislike to me, and sent a report back to the Center accusing me of cowardice. It was a blatant lie—only the suicidal or the very stupid will believe that one elderly battleship could take on an entire ship-clan of Gantarash. Nonetheless, Zarkon felt the need to make an example of someone that day, and I was handy. He gave me to Haggar, who proceeded to destroy me almost completely in both mind and body. It was there that I first encountered Shiro, Erantha. He was a gladiator-slave even as I was. Even through my own pain and madness, I could see what was building up around him, and I forgave him even as he broke me. He had no choice, and my blood on his hands bound him further into what was coming. Haggar had broken the mental boundary in my mind, you see, that prevents most people from seeing the tides of probability that we all move through, and that move us in turn. I dreamed while Lizenne was putting me back together, and in those dreams I could see Voltron's return, and more importantly, the incredible young people who would pilot the Lions. I could see the blood-bond between myself and Shiro pulling us in, and that our alliance would be vital for all who would become involved. I was not wrong, and I am enjoying it all immensely.”

Erantha stared at him with wide eyes. “What else can you see?”

Modhri shook his head. “Nothing of that sort, now. Mortal minds were not intended to perceive that sort of thing, and Lizenne was forced to put a ward in me.”

“I had no choice,” Lizenne added. “I could rebuild Modhri's body, but Haggar had splintered his mind. It took some time to bring him back to full sanity, and that mental boundary that Haggar had so casually smashed was irreparably broken, leaving him completely vulnerable to anything and everything on the astral plane. He would have gone totally mad if I hadn't put the ward in, and while he can bear to be without it for short periods, it's very difficult for him.”

“It's not as bad as it was,” Modhri murmured gently. “I'm getting stronger, and we keep good company. You should have seen it, the last time you dropped the ward, Lizenne. The Castle and everyone in it was so beautiful from that perspective. You, all by yourself, are magnificent.”

Lizenne reached out and stroked his face lovingly. “Eternal flatterer. Even though such perspectives might be useful, Erantha, we will leave the duty of foresight to Shiro, who is far more resilient and has a support system that must be seen to be believed. I have no idea of what awaits you, now that you have joined us.”

“Have I?” Erantha asked, looking up at the dragons, who were watching her with enigmatic blue eyes. “Others of the Order have ridden along with you for a time, and have left your company without making much of a difference. Drosh still works as a minor functionary on Korbex when he isn't running errands for Kolivan. Kolanth continues in much the same way, as does Helenva. After tomorrow night, you will leave, and I have received no orders to accompany you.”

Lizenne's sensitive ears picked up the tiny thread of regret in her voice; the younger woman had enjoyed their hunt more than she was letting on. “You might not need them. Whatever happens in the near future will be followed by other events, and those will be followed by others. No particular event in the course of history is the be-all and end-all; there is always something beyond. Sooner or later the Paladins will enter the Core Worlds region; Drosh may be instrumental to smoothing their path when that happens. As for Kolanth, we couldn't have done without him after Haggar had hit us with that hex of hers, and without him we might not have found Pidge in time to help her and the _Quandary_. Helenva has laid claim to a man who might one day become Emperor—a man whom the Red Paladin rescued from certain doom, and she may yet achieve great things as his Consort. It doesn't end there—both Helenva and her uncle Ronok stand to aid in the resurrection of one of Simadht's most valued Lineages, and young Tamzet may have something more to contribute when he grows up. The Ghost Fleet has become mighty. Allura made a number of important contacts in that harem on Sowirra. Omorog stands to reclaim a primacy in their Sector that was denied them by the Empire. Trenosh and Vennex are working to establish a post-Imperial network of economic stability that might become the nucleus of a whole new empire. Even our more casual contacts may have had a purpose, Erantha. Were you ever told of that family that we rescued when we liberated Clarence, or that pair of children Hunk encountered on Rociaport?”

Erantha waggled a hand. “I am aware that a family was settled on Olkarion. They're still there, and doing research with their hosts that looks to be very promising. As do their children. I am not aware of the ones from Rociaport.”

Modhri nodded decisively. “Sarell and Kolost served to give the Paladins a better understanding of our people, Keith and Allura in particular, and their research and their offspring might just become vital later. How much later, I cannot say. As for Medrok and Lituya, Lizenne suggested that they might look to Zampedri for further instruction when they are old enough to fly on their own. Medrok has a stalwart heart, and Lituya has the potential to be a potent witch. Will they come, do you think?”

That last had been directed at the dragons, who thought about it for a moment, and then nodded. Soluk uttered a string of rumbles, clicks, and chirps that sounded reassuring, and then sniffed hopefully at the hide-wrapped bundle of raw atinbuk meat.

“He says that there are already two hatchling dragons waiting to form a pack-bond with them,” Lizenne translated, watching fondly as her man sectioned out a few more morsels for the dragons. “What we do today might not have meaning until months or even years down the line. Everyone and everything has purpose, you included, Erantha. All we can do is face what tomorrow brings. If nothing else, those who work with us generally wind up happier for it.”

Erantha smiled wryly and took another bite of the savory atinbuk meat. “You may be on to something. I have served with the Blade for many years, and cannot say that it has been fun for any of us. We tend to be a grim lot; our work is difficult and dangerous, and our opposition is ruthless. As of late, however, even Kolivan has begun to show us hints that he is not actually made of stone.”

Modhri caressed Soluk's nose and cast Erantha a solemn look. “He, like the rest of you, has lost much, and that loss was excruciating. He has sacrificed much of what he holds dear for the cause, and I do not doubt that the rest of you have as well. Such sacrifice all too often goes unrewarded.” Modhri's grave expression softened into a sly smile. “Whatever has hold of us now believes in paying its dues. Reward and obligation can be the same thing. Hard as it is from time to time, I can't even think of leaving this game now. Not now, when everything is coming to a head.”

Lizenne finished the last bite of her meal and gave Erantha a wry look. “And there it stands, Erantha. Will you dance with us tomorrow and accept whatever the future brings you, or will you walk away and leave Zaianne to take up your role?”

Erantha lifted a sardonic eyebrow. “I have a choice?”

“There is always a choice,” Lizenne said softly, reflecting back on a few of her own, “and each option has its consequences.”

The Blade lifted her chin proudly. “I will dance. If nothing else, it will let me delight my students by canceling a class that none of them are much interested in attending, anyway. It is most gratifying to contend with a skilled opponent, even on stage.”

Lizenne grinned fiercely. “I'll agree to that! We'll dazzle our audience utterly, my friend, and make a lot of complete strangers yearn for a point in history that they themselves never knew.”

“An era long past,” Erantha said thoughtfully, and turned a considering eye upon Modhri. “One that might return to us, in time. The Emperor and his witch have bent our society into a shape that is not natural for us. When they are gone, it might begin to recover.”

Modhri nodded. “It will take some time, and the outer colonies in particular will need protection while they do so, but it is not impossible. Galra will always be clannish and belligerent, that's just a part of our nature, but we need not be conquerors. I'm willing to work toward that. Are you?”

Erantha smiled at him. “Of course.”

_Shiro dreamed. He knew that he dreamed, and yet he could not stop, for these were the dreams of days yet to come and they demanded his attention. He dreamed dancing and laughter, and battle and screaming, and it was difficult to tell the two apart. A sudden flash shook the two into snowflakes that scattered all around as the floor under his feet jerked like a live thing, and thunder that was not thunder roared in his ears as the lights came down around him. In the foxfire glow that followed, all was confusion and the smell of burning, and the sounds of fear and pain. Metal moved to its own music, and the lights flashed and flickered, purple lights that spoke death in sharp bursts. There was darkness, darkness in the deep places, darkness that smelled of blood that was not Human, a stench of madness, mad yellow eyes that saw only with hatred. A choked whisper of warning in a voice that he did not know hissed past his ears, and then there was fire. Fire pure and fire foul, foul as a burning corpse, and a searing-cold pain that pierced his breast, stealing breath and strength. A blade of ice flashed then, and skewered a source of void; all things stopped on a sudden note of horror, and the knowledge of that terrible simplicity was more horrifying still._

Shiro snapped awake with a cry of fear, his mouth tasting of month-old icicles and his skin dewed with sweat that was nearly as cold. He shuddered. Something was going to happen, and by the wet streak down the back of his shirt and the churning of his gut, he knew that it wasn't going to be good.

He glanced at his timepiece. It was very early in the morning, but not early enough to attempt more sleep, and he was already wide awake and humming with residual anxiety. The actual dream had been all fragments and impressions to start with, and the memory was fading like the morning mist as such dreams often did. It was the taste of fear that lasted the longest. Loliqua had warned him about that; there was never just one future, she'd told him, and the more complex an event, the more futures were possible. His four-dimensional awareness had been trying to make sense of thousands, perhaps millions of probabilities, all of them very similar in some ways, and could do it only by expressing it in symbolism. Not necessarily _his_ symbolism at that, and there was only a fifty-fifty chance of the event in question even coming to pass, which was why such dreams were so damned maddening.

Something bad was going to happen at the dance. He knew it, blood and bone.

Shiro sighed and went to take a shower. Maybe a workout on the training deck would help to dispel the lingering dread that haunted him.

When he arrived, he found that he wasn't alone. Erantha was already there, halfway through a series of stretches that he'd seen Zaianne perform on several occasions. Not for the first time, Shiro reflected that there was a very great deal of variation in the Galran race, as much or more so than in Humans. Zaianne carried herself with a great deal of control and grace, but her body was like that of a mountain lion; graceful, yes, but powerfully-built. Erantha, on the other hand, exuded an air of delicate precision, and moved as though she had a special arrangement with gravity. Her aristocratic features were grave, eyes distant as she concentrated, and despite her rail-thin build he was sure that she was perfectly capable of picking a man up and breaking him over her knee if she chose to.

“Couldn't sleep?” he asked when she had come to the end of the set.

“I don't sleep much,” Erantha replied, fixing him with an expressionless topaz gaze. “A Blade must be ever-alert; danger stalks us constantly. I might ask what you are doing up at this hour as well.”

“Prophetic dreams,” Shiro replied with a grimace of distaste. “Something is going to happen tonight, and it's not going to be good. I couldn't make out the details, but that's the feeling that I'm getting.”

Erantha nodded, showing no surprise at all. “I will be ready. The Drinths will hold to their agreement, but there are a number of other peoples among the Council members who will not approve. The Governor himself is lazy and willing to be bribed into inaction, but there are those among his command staff who are far more enthusiastic.”

“Fanatics?” Shiro asked.

Erantha's spare features took on a disapproving cast. “At least three, and another one who is unabashedly insane.”

“I'll warn the others,” Shiro said, frowning at the thought. He'd fought the mad before, both in the arena and out of it, and it had never been a good experience. “Can you tell me what the venue will be like? We've never been here before, and I don't like fighting on unknown ground.”

Erantha slid her blade back into its sheath with a glance of approval in Shiro's direction. “The Council Hall is a very large building,” she said crisply. “It is the largest in the city, and the tallest at five stories high, and was not built by the Drinths themselves. The Hall was originally the Residence of a Pholura Great Keelaun, and was annexed by the Drinths after their own government buildings were destroyed during the Empire's subjugation of this world. Pholurae are very like large birds and are flight-capable, requiring a great deal of space around themselves for their peace of mind. The building has three parts: the main central portion was once a private indoor soaring chamber, and has been repurposed as the venue for full Council sessions. The floor is large, round, and surrounded by tiers of seats, and that is where we will be performing tonight. The Hall's side wings are primarily office space, where the actual work gets done, and they connect via hallways that run along the rear of the central chamber. I have heard it described as looking from above like a melon in a sling.”

Shiro nodded. “Makes sense. Anything else about it that I should know?”

“The top two floors and the domes are not in use,” Erantha continued, “Drinths do not like heights. There are three basement levels that are used mainly for storage space, with a large kitchen taking up much of the first sublevel. There are four entrances on the ground level—front, rear, and one on each side. They are large, fortunately, for the first two floors have no windows.”

Shiro hummed, frowning. “Big birds like high vantage points. I get it. It sounds risky, though. If someone blocks those exits, it's going to be hard to get out.”

Erantha smiled thinly. “Or to get in. The Hall was designed to be defensible, and the walls are very strong. Being a den of bureaucrats, it is also very easy to get lost in there, particularly among the offices. The Council employs a special team of guest-finders; large public events are often held there, and people often get drunk, confused, and very lost during them, usually while looking for the restrooms. There was one case where the guest-finders missed one, and that person was discovered five years later, living in the service ducts. It had gone feral, and had been surviving by stealing other people's food from the lunchroom refrigerators.”

Shiro snorted a laugh. “I could almost swear that Galaxy Garrison had one of those. I lost a lot of bento boxes that way. One more question, Erantha.”

“Yes?”

He knew enough about Galra women now to smile fiercely at her. “Are you done here, or will you join me? I need some exercise, and the Castle's training drones are starting to seem a bit tame.”

Erantha's eyes glinted at this challenge, and this time her smile was real. “I will stay. You have something of a reputation, Paladin, and I prefer the deed to the word.”

Lance jerked awake with a yell, swinging a fist at a foe that was not there and nearly falling out of bed. He recovered his balance in a flailing of limbs and blankets, headphones and sleeping mask flying, and sat panting on the edge of his bed. His heart was pounding like a war drum, sending his blood singing through his veins, and there was a hot taste of excitement in his mouth. He blinked blearily at the floor for a moment, and then realized what was going on.

“ _Quiznek,”_ he muttered grumpily, and then pulled on his bathrobe. He had a team leader that needed yelling at.

He was joined by the others as he padded toward the lift, and was not surprised to see that they were just as grumpy and underslept as he was. Hunk and Pidge were wearing their new ultraplush PJ's, at least, which was gratifying. Lance liked it when his efforts were appreciated.

They heard the source of their discontent before they saw it; the sounds of a space ninja battle were coming from one of the secondary sparring rooms—the bell-like sounds of blade ringing upon blade, the grunts and shouts of effort, the rapid thumps and clattering of leaps, kicks, and fancy footwork. Allura heaved a long, disgusted sigh, and that was all that needed to be said. When they looked into the room, they were not at all surprised to see Shiro and Erantha wrestling each other for possession of the black bayard.

The two combatants were magnificent to watch as they grappled enthusiastically around the room, Shiro showing himself as a juggernaut of strength and precision and Erantha floating like a dark fantasy; the only accolades that the rest of the team felt themselves able to muster was a vast yawn from Pidge and Lance scratching his rump. When Zaianne joined them, they didn't even grunt.

Zaianne, of course, was fully awake and alert as she always was at that hour, and she smiled to see her adoptive son in such fine fettle. “Well, he's recovered fully, at least,” she murmured, admiring his form. “What are all of you doing up?”

“Lion-bond,” Keith said around a yawn. “He's too excited for the rest of us to sleep.”

Pidge growled. “For this, he will pay. I was up really late planning my chicken house.”

“He gets to wash the dishes after breakfast,” Hunk decreed solemnly, glowering at Shiro, who had just pulled his bayard out of Erantha's grip and was chasing her down the length of the room. “I will make something really messy.”

“Thamst porridge,” Pidge suggested.

“We're out of thelwisk seeds,” Hunk replied sadly. “Weren't you going to save some to try and grow your own bushes?”

Pidge growled again. “The mice stole them. Maybe we should go back to Arcobi. That was a really good supermarket.”

They paused as Shiro hurtled through the air in the opposite direction; Erantha had gotten tired of being chased, and had picked him up and thrown him across the room.

“Good arm,” Allura commented, having tossed the man before herself, and knew how much he weighed. “We're going to need a nap before the dance, aren't we? I had trouble getting to sleep. I haven't attended a dance in years, you know.”

Shiro executed an athletic roll in midair and landed easily, charging at Erantha with a roar that sent a corresponding thrill through his teammates' blood. Keith scratched at his belly button, too sleepy to be impressed. “Maybe we ought to talk to Lizenne. Is there a way to... I dunno, put a noise filter on the bond?”

Allura raised a hand warningly. “If there is, it would be risky. You don't want to wind up sleeping through a life-or-death situation, or have it interfere with the communication between us and the Lions.”

Hunk humphed sourly. “Oh, yeah, he's doing the dishes. And she gets to help. I'll make a big pot of boslap cereal. It takes, like, half an hour to scrub that stuff off of the cookware.”

Zaianne wrinkled her nose. “I'll graze off of last night's leftovers. Those hamburgers were very good, weren't they?”

The team hummed in happy reminiscence. Atinbuk meat made  _excellent_ hamburgers.

“Yeah,” Keith said, “and now Lizenne owes us a hunt. Does she have anything interesting in the gene-lab?”

“No, but she's thinking about cooking up another ornipal, or perhaps a couple of thratamnae.” Zaianne's eyes glinted in anticipation. “She says that thratamnae are tricky, but delicious.”

There was a thud from the sparring room; Erantha had knocked Shiro to the floor and was trying to get the bayard away from him again. Lance frowned at their energetic gyrations and cocked a sidelong glance at Allura. “Want to break this up? If they go on like that any longer, we'll have to tack a 'Mature' rating over the door.”

Allura giggled despite her own rising irritation, and shouted, “All right, you two, who started it?”

Shiro and Erantha stopped mid-grapple and looked guiltily up at the group in the doorway. “Oh, uh...” Shiro said breathlessly, “what are you guys doing up?”

Hunk waved an admonishing finger at him. “Lion-bond, Shiro. You're noisy. I am now a Sad Bear, and you have incurred the wrath of the Techno-Mousie.”

Pidge rubbed at her eyes and glared at him. Hunk picked her up and cradled her in his arms, making her squeak in a definitely mouselike way. Hunk leveled one of his own devastating pouts at his team leader and said, “You are a bad person for upsetting the Mousie.”

“Sorry,” Shiro said contritely, putting his bayard away. “I dreamed the future again, and it woke me up in a fright. I needed to sweat it out with some exercise, and, well, Erantha offered to help.”

They glared at Erantha, who met their displeasure with a lofty expression that said that not only was she not sorry, but probably had never been sorry for anything in her life.

Allura rolled her eyes. “Was it anything that we should know about?”

Shiro pulled himself to his feet. “Yeah. Something's going to happen at the dance later tonight. I'm not sure what it is, but it's not going to be good. I don't think that we're in danger of losing anybody, but I could be wrong; it was pretty badly fragmented. We'll need to discuss emergency tactics, just in case that I'm right.”

Lance humphed. “After breakfast. It'll be fine, Shiro. I've put a lot of thought into our dancewear, and we aren't going in unarmed. This is going to be— _mrph!”_

Hunk's large and plush-clad hand had clamped over his mouth. “Don't say it, man. I don't want it jinxed any worse than it already is.”

“Sorry,” Lance said, and yawned. “Still half-asleep here. You said something about boslap cereal?”

“Yeah, and who's doing the cleanup,” Hunk shot Shiro and Erantha a significant look. “Come on, I'll run up some tanrook buns, too.”

“Am I missing something?” Erantha asked as they headed back toward the lift.

Shiro sighed. “It's an Earthly superstition involving cake. I'll explain later.”

“More of a substition, really,” Zaianne added. “Nobody actually believes it, but it tends to be true nonetheless. Come along.”

Mystified, Erantha did as she was told.

It was a half-hour before the show, and like all performers the universe over, that last thirty minutes was a time of mild panic. Allura and Coran had opened up the room next to Lance's sewing room to serve as a place to get properly dressed up and polished, and Lance had moved in every kind of accent, cosmetic, and accessory that the Castle's fabricator could come up with. Everybody liked a little flash and glitter for special occasions, but how much to add had been a problem. Shiro's rather muddled Vision had not been lost on the others, and they didn't want any unnecessary fiddly bits getting in the way if they had to fight.

“All right, is everybody ready?” Shiro asked, touching the secret pocket where he'd secured his bayard for the third time; he'd been to numerous dance meets with Adam before, but public spectacles always made him a little nervous. “Lizenne, Modhri, the dragons, the mice, and Erantha have already gone on ahead of us.”

“I'm ready,” Hunk replied with all good cheer, tying on a fresh headband over his glossy dark hair. “This is going to be so cool. There isn't much about Galaxy Garrison that I miss, but the dorm dance-offs are one of them.”

Coran grinned at his reflection in one of the big mirrors and adjusted his monocle, his chest aglitter with numerous medals and awards, his half-cape draped _just so_ over his right shoulder. “Ah, yes, we held those, too, back in my Academy days,” he said blithely. “Grand spectacles they were, each and every one, although the senior faculty insisted on the right to shut them down after a given amount of time. Things have a tendency to get a bit out of hand as the evening wears on, you know.”

“No kidding?” Pidge asked, tugging her skirt into a better position.

Allura hummed and capped off her lipstick. “None. I never saw it myself, of course, but I did hear rumors. The Paladin Academy's students were all very diverse, and used those dances to work off stress. I used to hear the Castle's staff gossiping in corners about duels and unapproved liaisons, as well as the occasional attempt by one cadet to eat another, and didn't one dance hall actually explode once, Coran?”

“Only half of it,” Coran said, waving a dismissive hand. “It wasn't our fault that some maintenance tech had stashed his numvill in that transformer junction, was it? And it certainly wasn't our fault that Duloquins are dedicated teetotalers, and their religion requires them to set any intoxicant on fire whenever they see one. Ekespin was a good lad, but very devout, and was very sorry for the damage afterward.”

Keith humphed and finished tying off his tassel-bedecked braid. “Better than drinking it, I guess. Numvill tastes nasty. Where's Lance?”

“Back in the sewing room,” Zaianne said with a jerk of her thumb in that direction, her burgundy suit gleaming with the gesture. “He said that he was making some last-minute adjustments.”

Shiro rolled his eyes. Lance, unfortunately, was a bit of a dandy. “This late? Come on, we'd better go and get him, or he'll be at it all night.”

To their surprise, Lance's sewing room was dark when they entered. This appeared to be deliberate, for the moment that they stepped in, a drumroll began to play, and a single spotlight in the center of the room came on. Descending gracefully from the high ceiling on banners of glimmering blue silk, their athletic teammate executed an expert and complex twirl in slow motion and landed neatly on booted feet before them. Glimmering in the spotlight, his suit flashed brilliant cobalt as he struck a pose, lines of gold embroidery in the shape of tiny Lions accentuating the magnificent musculature of his body and limbs. He had even added a corsage of gold lace flowers to one flaring lapel, and a shining cobalt silk cravat ruffled stylishly at his throat. It was elegant, debonair, and entirely delicious, and none of his teammates missed any of the details.

“Holy cow, man,” Hunk said with a huge smile. “You're lucky that James Bond isn't here, or he'd knock you down and steal your clothes. You look _great._ Your own grandma couldn't do better.”

“Practice,” Lance said proudly, turning around so they could see the expertly-fitted back. “I dunno, though... does it make me look fat?”

Hunk blew him a raspberry. “Dude, _I_ wouldn't look fat in that. A beach ball wouldn't look fat in that. Remember Timmy Martinez's cousin Lester? _He_ wouldn't look fat in that, and he weighed over half a ton when his folks finally staged that intervention.”

“Neat entrance, too,” Shiro said, having found his voice at last. “I didn't know that you knew how to do aerial silk dancing.”

Lance gave him a self-depreciating smile. “I've got a cousin who showed me a few tricks. Zaianne helped me set it up. I really like your mom, Keith.”

Zaianne chuckled. “And I like you right back. All right, children, stop dribbling lustfully at your teammate, we're out of time. Let's go and make a great many other people dribble lustfully at him, shall we?”

That brought a laugh out of the speechless team, and they headed for the shuttle bay in a good humor.

“Whoa,” Hunk muttered, staring at the huge open space.

The central chamber of the Council Hall was one of those buildings that seemed bigger on the inside than on the outside, just from the sheer expanse of open space. It was shaped more or less like a teacup, with a round “foot” of floor space, the rising tiers of seats for the audience surrounding it and giving the lower portion of the room a curved appearance, and rising up into a generous, truncated sphere-shape. The ceiling had to be three stories up at least, and probably more. Erantha had been right when she'd said that the Drinths didn't like heights, and the ceiling itself had rather obviously been a later addition, being only a huge sheet of something like heavy canvas, which had been stretched as tight as a drum over the enormous empty space. Just below it, a framework of rather sketchy-looking gantries and catwalks supported large light fixtures that managed to illuminate the room decently. Shiro's sharp eyes spotted vid-screen generators as well, and there were other devices scattered here and there on the floor's periphery that he couldn't quite guess the purpose of.

“Oh, great, now I'm getting antsy,” he heard Lance grumble, and sensed more than saw the young man fidgeting nervously. “Why does this always happen? I've done a ton of school plays, and I've had to watch tons more—holy crow, so many school plays, and I _still_ get nervous whenever I see a stage! You'd think I'd be used to it by now.”

Modhri chuckled softly. “One of my brothers is an actor, as I believe that I've told you, and he goes onstage almost every day. He still gets jittery, especially when the script calls for some kind of drama.”

Shiro turned to look at the Galra man standing resplendent in his hunting leathers and looking perfectly cool and collected. His scars had been disguised with cosmetics, and he looked to be the very picture of health and strength. “Galra get stage fright?”

“Oh, yes,” Modhri said, waving a hand at the multitude of aliens taking their seats in the tiers. “Galra men tend to be very self-conscious. We instinctively know that we must project ourselves at our very best at all times. We must be strong, brave, bold, fierce, confident, alert, and in control of ourselves and our surroundings at every second—this is to show our fellows that we are worthy of our status, and more importantly, to show any unattached women who might be present that we are the best possible choice. Everyone is judging everyone else, and under the eyes of so many potential rivals, the stress can be crushing. My brother is moderately famous, and every time the recorders come on, he is seen by _millions._ The best that one can do is to concentrate on the task at hand, and to perform as well as possible.”

Lance gave him a sidelong look. “And you?”

Modhri beamed. “I'm married. I have already won the game, and may act as I please.”

They glanced over at Lizenne, also wearing her hunting leathers and was fussing over the fit of the jeweled harness that Tilla was wearing.

Lance clapped his adoptive uncle on the shoulder. “Modhri, you are a lucky man. So, when does the fun start?”

“It won't be long now,” Modhri replied. “I'm told that the Council needs to assemble fully and take their seats, and then the Speaker will make a little speech. Only a little one, thankfully; this event is still not wholly-approved by all of the Council members, I'm afraid, and they don't dare to let the thar drone on for too long. Ah, there—the big Drinth with the ceremonial mallet? That's the official Granidlo, and dan's fully authorized to give the Speaker a bop on the head if thir gets carried away.”

Curious, the team craned their necks to get a good look. Sure enough, a big, especially surly-looking Drinth in formal wear was pacing ceremoniously about with an enormous, long-handled mallet. Drinths were centaur-like aliens that rather resembled hippopotomi from the waist down, and were large and powerfully-built; Shiro made a mental note to give the Granidlo a lot of room if a fight broke out. He did _not_ want to get hit with that mallet.

The tiers were almost full now, he saw, and an elaborately-dressed Drinth, presumably the Speaker, was setting up a temporary podium. High above, a trio of yellow-scaled, lightly-built aliens were checking over the light fixtures and screen projectors, and other technical staff were fiddling with the bits of odd machinery below. Not long now. Shiro straightened his collar and touched the hidden pocket that held his bayard, and then looked over at his team. Lance's suit was flickering blue as he jittered about, Pidge was adorable and Allura gorgeous, Keith was scowling handsomely, and Hunk practically glowed. Zaianne was stunning in a deep wine-red and the dragons were magnificent in their glittering harnesses; Erantha was wearing something very like an officer's uniform in dark slate-blue that had a severe military cut to it and looked frighteningly official, complete with a half-cape attached to her shoulders with golden bosses. Even the mice were dressed for the occasion, in dapper little tailcoats and tiny bow-ties. Lance had also added tiny antigrav strips to those garments as an afterthought, which just made sense in Shiro's mind. The best place for tiny things if things went wrong was well up and out of reach. Weirdly enough, Lance had said that the pattern for those formal flight suits had been among the auto-tailor's files, causing Shiro to wonder just how largely the mice had figured in Altean society.

Tilla lowered her head and whuffled pleasantly at him, and he smiled and patted her nose. “Soon,” he told her. “Just remember to only turn around once after every verse this time, all right? You nearly flattened us during practice.”

Tilla snorted and nipped at his forelock playfully before turning her attention to the mice on Soluk's shoulders. The dragons, to everyone's surprise, had taken to their dance lessons with remarkable eagerness, and rather more enthusiasm than was really necessary. Tilla in particular had enjoyed the “turn yourself around” part of the Hokey-Pokey, and it had been very difficult to persuade her not to whirl wildly out of control at every opportunity. Just his luck, he had a dragon that liked chasing her tail.

There was a gravelly ratcheting sound from the podium as the Speaker cleared thirs throat, and thir began to adress the Council in a very formal tone of voice. The Granidlo, Shiro noticed, had settled down on dans haunches nearby and was keeping an eye on dans large and ornate wristwatch. Having had to listen to a fair few “inspirational” speeches that his superiors had bored the young recruits half to death with back at Galaxy Garrison, Shiro wondered if the tradition of the Official Granidlo might be successfully transplanted to Earth. It would certainly cut down on the blather and name-calling between political parties.

Roughly five minutes later, the Granidlo began, with great and ostentatious ceremony, to roll up dans sleeves, revealing bulging biceps that spoke of years of dutiful blowhard-smacking. Heaving danself to dans feet and baring dans jutting teeth in a terrible grin, dan began to approach the Speaker, who was so caught up in thirs own eloquence that thir almost didn't notice the danger in time. The speech wrapped up in a hurried gabble as the mallet was raised to strike, and the Speaker picked up thirs podium and fled, leaving the Granidlo to bow to the audience and exit decorously, stage left.

Shiro nodded in approval. He would definitely have to see whether or not he could get the tradition started back home.

“Hunk?” he asked.

“Yeah?” Hunk replied.

“Were they able to get our music hooked up?”

Hunk smiled and nodded. “Not a problem. Lizenne had a spare unit, and I copied our stuff onto that. Galra tech is pretty universal in this end of the Empire.”

“Good,” Shiro said, waving a hand to attract his team's attention. “All right, everybody, I think we're on. Just in case, though... Coran, did the ship techs get the work on the Castle and the _Chimera_ done?”

Coran, who looked very colorful in his elegantly-tailored suit and glittering medals, adjusted his monocle and nodded. “Indeed they did, and we ran a full systems check on both ships. We're good to go at any time. Anticipating trouble, Number One?”

“It's my job.” Shiro sighed and looked out at that huge expanse of floor. “Come on, everybody, let's get this over with.”

“They _what?”_ Governor Morix asked, coming erect in his chair and staring at his informant.

“They had a valid contract, sir,” the Drinth replied sulkily. “We didn't have much of a choice. You can't argue with a genuine Skull Pact, and they still had the original. The real thing, sir, we checked. You're lucky that I'm telling you this at all.”

Morix sighed and rubbed at his brow. He didn't much like Drinths, but by damn, they stuck to an agreement. Dhuareg here was the closest thing to a dishonest politician that he'd been able to find, and that was only because he'd gotten the weird-looking alien to sign a mutual-assistance contract. Dhuareg had ambitions toward the Chairmanship of the Council, and wasn't above the occasional side deal.

“I take it that all of the Council will be there, and watching?” he asked.

“Every last one, sir,” Dhuareg replied. “The Paladins promised them things that your lot refused to demonstrate, and they're eager to finally get a good look.”

Morix glared suspiciously at the Drinth, who returned his gaze impassively. “Dancing. Why is dancing so important to them?”

Dhuareg shrugged. “Got me, sir, but a lot of them insist on it. They'll be mightily miffed if you interrupt them before the Historical dance is done—apparently the Rogue Witch and her lot are doing a bit out of a classic. Something called 'karchozra mak'thuthros', and it's a romance.”

Unbeknownst to many, Morix had a fondness for the great classics. He still coveted his father's copy of the Chalep'Thora's version of that epic, as a matter of fact. “Will they be recording it?”

“Guaranteed,” Dhuareg replied, rolling all four eyes. “They'll probably be picking over the details for the next thirty years.”

Morix smiled slyly. “I can delay that long, at least. Get me a clean recording, and I'll make it worth your while. But their ships are repaired?”

Dhuareg gestured an affirmative. “They are, and the Lions are in their hangars. One of the techs got the goofy one with the mustache to let guan see the black Lion. It's the real thing. Before you ask, there's the traditional formal dinner after the dancing, which'll take at least a couple of hours to get through, even with the Granidlo on hand to cut the boring speeches short. You'll have plenty of time to secure the ships, or at least to lock down the docks. I wouldn't try to board the ships, if I were you—someone's been fiddling with the defensive systems on both craft, and that Hanifor ship's got a mean stare for something with no eyes. Think you've got enough of a force to take them?”

Morix frowned pensively. “I have to at least _try,_ or the Emperor will have my head for it. If we can take them by surprise at the dance, say, just after the third segment or at the dinner, then maybe. As for the local garrison fleet, no. Most of them were requisitioned; Commander Arkkax needed them for a full destructor fleet. I do not want Voltron shooting up what little I have left.”

Dhuareg pawed thoughtfully at the floor with one forefoot. “What if you call for outside help?”

“I probably won't get any,” Morix said sourly. “There are no spare ships in the entire Sector; Zarkon decreed that the entire Beronite population was to be eradicated, Dhuareg, and they have a very large and surprisingly well-armed population.”

Dhuareg's ears flapped in surprise. “The Beronites? But they're one of our major trading partners! We've got a lot of contracts with them, and a number of agreements that haven't been fulfilled on both sides yet, and--”

Morix waved a hand, cutting him off. “I know. The Empire does, too. The last I knew, the High Houses were already preparing to send a petitioner to the Throne in order to persuade him to call it off, but...”

His desk communicator chirped suddenly, and to his surprise it was one of the fleet captains that had been called away from his garrison. He tapped the “accept” button. “Governor Morix, here. What do you need, Captain Sandash?”

Captain Sandash was a gangly and lugubrious-looking Kedrekan, and he was looking even more mournful and worried than usual. _“Just checking in, Governor. We're at Cletinda Shipyard at the moment, getting the starboard guns nailed back on, and Captains Thrazzan, Banzak, Zorai, Makpat and I will be heading home about... oh, a week or so from now, assuming that Arkkax doesn't keep us around to do other things.”_

Morix blinked. “What happened to the others?”

“ _Bad things, sir. I'm not authorized to talk about them yet. Strictly speaking, I shouldn't be talking to you now. All I can tell you is that the Beronites aren't going to be wiped out for the time being, and we're going to have our hands full dealing with the fallout from the particulars. The whole damned Sector's going to be very shorthanded until the Shipyards can catch up with the demand. Oh, and did you get the broadcast about Lotor yet?”_

“I did. What did that fool boy do?”

“ _That was part of the particulars. His royal father really wants to have a talk with him about that, so if you've got anyone left at home who's competent enough to act fast and smart, keep them around. You're going to need them if he swings by your worlds.”_

Morix hissed. “I will, and thank you. Good luck, Sandash.”

“ _Vrepet sa, sir,”_ Sandash said, _“signing out.”_

The little screen went blank, leaving Morix staring at it in perplexity and wondering just what could have happened to disrupt an entire destructor fleet that badly.

“Oh, hoof-rot,” Dhuareg said faintly. “Well, it's an opportunity to get rid of Thanrak, Balzuk, Kranth, and Morzul. If you're lucky, the Paladins will get them out of your hair permanently, and if they can take out Akazia as well, it's a net gain. There will probably be some collateral damage no matter what, but we're coming up on election season anyway.”

“Truth,” Morix said darkly, reflecting on his least favorite underlings. “Thank you for the warning, Dhuareg, and I will make sure that you're rewarded for it, regardless of how things turn out.”

“You're welcome, sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone's confused by the whole invoking of the pastry gods thing, let's just say it's a line commonly used in movies and comics involving cake. Every time we've seen the line used, something goes seriously wrong a short time later. No, I will not say it myself. I don't need that sort of hex. As it is, things are going to get...exciting, for the Paladins...


	17. Party Time!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sleep is a cryptid that I hunt often and rarely catch. So while I'm searching the depths of my blankets, here is a chapter. I hope you enjoy it!

Chapter 17: Party Time

“ _You put your left leg in, you take your left leg out, you put your left leg in and you shake it all about! You do the Hokey-Pokey and you turn yourself around...”_

Keith ducked as Tilla's huge spiky tail swung through the air at about head height, executed an athletic crouch-and-spin, and then sprang upright again, keeping an eye on the dragon the whole time to make sure that she wasn't going to keep whirling around in circles. If he focused on not getting torn apart by her various spikes and pointy parts or flattened under her huge clawed feet, he could safely ignore everything else. His life depended on that, as a matter of fact; if he let his mind dwell on the fact that he was doing the Hokey-Pokey while in formal wear, right in front of roughly two thousand alien high officials, he would probably die of sheer embarassment. The fact that everybody else seemed to be having fun did not help. He ground his teeth and continued with this travesty, even when he heard Lance's voice ring out with _“You put your tail right in...”_

Keith very nearly gave into the temptation to throttle his teammate, right there in front of everybody. Lance had been told very firmly that there was to be no twerking, and no, it didn't matter that his family had made a tradition of constructive bottom-waggling in their dance-offs. Unfortunately, it was too late to stop him, and Tilla was already performing the graceful about-face to show off her own particularly impressive tail. Perforce, Keith did as well, resolving to plant his foot very firmly in Lance's tail as soon as the opportunity presented itself. Very, very firmly, he thought, ducking again as Tilla took her tail out. He would kick Lance's ass so hard that he would carry the bruise for life. No, no, he would kick Lance's whole genetic code so hard that Lance's children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren would all carry the mark of his wrath on their behinds. He would kick Lance's ass so hard that the impact would bend space and time. Not only would it be visible from orbit, but one day, Keith vowed, archaeologists would unearth the brittle bones of a two-million-year-old hominid that would have a boot-print clearly delineated on the right rear pelvis.

Tilla, grunting in amusement, waggled her hindquarters with no shame at all and executed another graceful pirouette.

Finally, _finally,_ they ran out of body parts to shake all about, sang the final _“Hokey-Pokey!”_ and were allowed to leave the floor while Lizenne and Modhri stayed back to make sure that the preparations for their own performance had been set up properly.

A big hand patted his shoulder, and he looked up into Hunk's smiling face. Hunk loved dancing and simply didn't care whether or not it was childish; his dark eyes glowed with confidence, and he was radiating happiness as only he could. “That wasn't so bad, now was it?” he said cheerfully. “How are you holding up, Keith?”

Keith scowled at Tilla, who had drifted aside and was rotating again with balletic grace. “I'm okay. What's with Tilla?”

“She really likes doing pirouettes,” Hunk said with a shrug. “Dragons don't get dizzy like we do—their inner-ear structure and visual systems are way different from ours, and they can take a lot of shaking around before their eyes start to cross, and their tummies don't get upset by it, either. Maybe we could rent her out as a carnival ride, or something.”

Keith couldn't help but smile at the thought of Tilla whirling gracefully, her back covered with excited kids while Hunk sold tickets. “I'd rather go charging after another yulpadi. This time, I want to ride the dragon.”

“Maybe later,” Hunk said, although his own gaze sharpened a bit at the thought of another bowl of the universe's most perfect stew. “Right now, we get a breather while Lizenne and the others take a turn. This is gonna be so cool. I asked Modhri about it, and he showed me a recording of a professional performance, and... wow.”

Keith opened his mouth to reply, but a low drumroll was sounding from the floor, and they turned to watch. The floor had acquired some scenery while they hadn't been looking, in the form of a holographic grassland bordered by forest, with a large rock formation on one side. That was probably a force-screen construct, for Zaianne had appeared atop it, resplendent in her burgundy-colored finery and her posture as proud as any queen's. Lights at the base of the faux rock formation lit her from below, making her golden eyes glow and her body seem half-made of shadow, like a spirit out of the night.

“Hearken!” she said in a commanding tone that immediately had everyone's attention, the sound system hurling her voice around the room and giving it an echoing effect that was very impressive. “Hearken, and behold this tale of the ancient days, when the First Emperor Modhri the Wise was growing old upon his Throne. Many were his daughters, and legion were his sons. Such was his skill and prowess that each and every one of his offspring were hotly pursued by the scions of the High Houses, that they might wed into the Royal Line and thereby gain a little of his greatness... and his favor. His daughters chose their men well, and great women chose his sons, save one only. One only—Prince Salchor, the last-born of Threonar, wife of Modhri the Wise. Indeed, he feared the women who came to court him, seeing that they sought him only to claim a portion of his father's power through his body, and escaped their eyes by guile. All unseen, he had taken an unmarked craft to the Great Mesa of Kochalpur on Namtura, homeworld of his grandmother, Queen Zaianne the Great. There, he thought to hide for a time in the wild, and to hunt, and to live as his distant ancestors once had, for such activity brings peace to the heart and soul of a troubled man.”

Zaianne gave the audience a naughty smile. “He soon found that he was not alone in his aims, and the Lady Kerolla, a woman of a minor House who had claimed that range for her own time of peace as well, soon took note. Like him, her House wished her to wed, and like him, she had not liked her choices. This man, all unlooked-for, presented a better option.”

The lights at the base of the rock went out, and Zaianne vanished; the music swelled, carrying a single, beautifully-trained male voice, singing in a language that had not been widely spoken for well over ten thousand years. Keith went very still at the sound of it, listening intently. He had never heard a Galra sing before, other than the song that Lizenne, Modhri, and Zaianne had sung during Shiro's resurrection, or when his mother was distracted enough to hum some random ditty under her breath. This was a professional in his prime, and something in the stately cadences and the way the words rang on the air spoke directly to his bones and blood. In answer to that music, Modhri appeared like a phantom out of the grasses.

Keith had seen his adoptive uncle move like that before, both on the training deck and in the envirodeck, and his heart ached to see the pensive and lonely expression on Modhri's face. He moved with a predator's grace, his every motion smooth and controlled as he swept the simulated grasses aside, looking for game trails.

As he bent down to examine what might have been a fresh track, a woman's voice joined the theme, light and ethereal, and Keith heard someone hiss beside him. He glanced down at Pidge, who was staring owlishly at the sound system. “That's Hantis!” she said very softly as the delicate voice wove into the music like threads of silver.

Allura suddenly pointed off to the left. “Look!”

In the shadow of a grove of simulated trees was Lizenne, nearly invisible among the slender boles and watching Modhri with considerable interest. She smiled, and Hantis laughed lightly, a soft and delicious sound that made the entire team blush hotly. Lizenne was no less graceful than her man, ghosting out of the trees to become one with the grasses, moving with the voice of the great Hantis Chalep'Thora to examine the very attractive intruder in her territory. She spent some time examining the oblivious fellow from all angles, and a ripple of amusement went through the crowd when she crept up behind him and tugged playfully on the tips of his ears.

Keith saw Lance raise a hand to his own ear out of the corner of his eye, and remembered how Helenva had done the same thing to his teammate before meeting Kelezar. Much like Lance had, Modhri jumped in surprise, yellow eyes wide and startled, and he whirled around to face his assailant. Too slowly, for Lizenne had vanished; Keith's nerves quivered as he felt Lizenne re-materialize behind Modhri, and he couldn't help but grin when she tickled his ribs. This time when Modhri spun around, she remained standing there, and he backed away in utter astonishment from this wild apparition.

The voice of Hantis took on a challenging tone, and Lizenne gave her chin that proud lift, her eyes flashing; the smile on her lips held both invitation and warning, and she drifted to one side in a movement as graceful as mist on the breeze. Her fingers brushed Modhri's cheek in passing, and he could not help but turn to follow.

The dance they performed then was not a pursuit. Modhri challenged her in turn with subtle gestures of his hands, and the bows they made to each other held nothing of submission. This was a mutual test of strength and coordination, of skill and grace, move and countermove that was as exacting as a battle. Still, they both slipped in affectionate touches here and there, from Modhri's expression of awe and delight, to Lizenne's tender caress to the underside of his jaw. When they came finally to embrace at the end of the music, the passionate kiss they shared was echoed around the room; no few of the people in the audience were similarly moved, and a squeak from Keith's left revealed Lance stealing a kiss from Pidge. Pidge was blushing hotly, but didn't seem repulsed, and Keith had just enough time to wonder why he hadn't gone up in flames at the sight of another guy kissing his girl before Lance wrapped his other arm around Keith's waist and rested his chin upon his shoulder. Keith turned his head to meet Lance's deep-blue eyes and surprisingly sweet smile, and thought, _Oh, that's why,_ as the overhead lights dimmed to signal the end of the scene. He couldn't help but notice that Hunk had wrapped his own arms around Shiro and Allura, and neither of them looked unhappy about that.

Once again, the lights at the base of the stone came on, illuminating the elevated Zaianne, and once again her voice rang out over the enthralled audience.

“Kerolla and Salchor had chosen each other in the old way, and once such a promise had been made, there could be no breaking it. That he was a Prince did not matter. That her House was not among the High did not matter. They were together as one for all time. Alas, the High Houses did not share that view; that Salchor was a Prince mattered very much to the ambitious, and they hunted for him relentlessly. For fifty-one days and nights the agents of the High Houses sought him, until one such agent, a servant of the House of Hap'Banak'Tak detected his ship, and carried word of it back to his masters. The House then sent a daughter of great skill to fetch him, thinking that his capture might gain them the wealth and preference they sought. Telchamar it was who was sent, Telchamar the proud, Telchamar the fierce, Telchamar, whose powers were subtle and varied. Telchamar, who came to the Mesa to claim what she thought was her due.”

The lights below the stone faded, and the overheads came up again, showing Lizenne and Modhri cuddling by a campfire, looking entirely contented with each other. It was a pose that Keith and the others had seen a number of times before, usually late in the evening in the Castle's main lounge. Her arm was around Modhri's shoulders, the hand caressing the fur behind his ear, and her expression faintly smug. Modhri was totally relaxed, his arm wrapped around her waist, and that sweet, loving smile that seemed to make the very air around them glow upon his face. Keith was fairly sure that nobody in the audience had ever seen a Galra man looking like that. Modhri had told him some time ago that the Military was made up almost entirely of unattached men and a scattering of women who were too fearsome to settle down. Those few female soldiers who did find a boyfriend among the ranks almost always resigned once their choice had been made, and they took their men with them when they left. Since the Military was what most uncolonized subject worlds saw, Galra family life was a complete mystery to large portions of the Empire. Indeed, there was a soft murmur of surprise rising from the tiers at this tender scene.

The simulated fire was burning low, and Lizenne leaned forward to toss an illusory stick into the flames. That seemed to have been the last of the firewood, however, and she scowled, rose gracefully, and set out to gather more. Modhri gazed longingly after her, but fell to some small task instead, completely missing the ripple in the grasses to his right. At the foot of the stone, Erantha appeared, the severe cut of her attire making her look like the most unwelcome aspect of civilization and badly out of place in that setting. Her expression was also something to fear; Keith had seen the sort of look she was giving Modhri before, in a nature documentary. He'd seen it on the face of a cougar, just before it had pounced on a young deer, and he had to stop himself from shouting a warning. No few of the watching Councilmembers did it for him.

A third voice had joined in the music, a powerful soprano who sang with the same terrible focus as a lioness on the hunt. Modhri started up in surprise and dismay when she came out of the grasses before him, leaping to his feet and backing away. She danced toward him, every movement sheer poetry, but her expression was cold; she called him to duty, rather than to love, and she was not in the habit of taking “no” for an answer.

Modhri backed further away, gesturing a strong negative as the male voice in the music became forceful and wary; he would not go with her, he had made his choice already, her family's ambitions could go hang for all he cared, and his own family's right beside them!

Erantha pursued, her eyes intent; he had no choice, his duty to both family and Empire demanded his submission. She moved suddenly, as smooth and fast as a striking snake, and struck—a quick blow to the temple and another precise blow to the back of one knee dropped him like a stone, and she pulled out a cord and tied his hands behind him as he lay gasping on the ground. She had just gotten him secured when the voice of Hantis rose in a terrifying shriek of pure rage, and suddenly Lizenne was there. Fangs bared, hackles raised, and tambok-fang knife in hand, she leaped from the top of the stone and would have landed right on Erantha's back if the woman hadn't sprung away.

Erantha pulled herself up to her full and impressive height, viewing the wildwoman with cold and disdainful eyes, and her sneer was a work of art. Slowly, she drew her own knife, dark luxite blade glinting, and bared her own fangs in challenge. Lizenne exploded forward in a rush that Keith and his team knew all too well from the training deck, and Keith had just enough time to be relieved that she hadn't brought her spear along before he was too busy watching the battle to pay much attention to anything else.

Galra women did not have catfights. Even as a mere stage performance, it was a full-on magic ninja clan war or nothing. Blades rang and sparks flew, and blows were traded with devastating force; they snapped in and out of sight as they teleported back and forth, trying to outmaneuver each other, and hurled and deflected mage-bolts in terrible profusion. Lizenne even lifted the flames out of the campfire and flung them at Erantha, who brushed them aside with a silvery shield. How much was real and how much was illusion, Keith could not tell. Even the music was a duel, the white-hot wrath of Hantis's voice contending with the potent soprano, underscored with the male voice's anxious chanting. Dazed, Modhri struggled to his knees, watching the battle with unalloyed horror and fighting to get his hands free. He managed to loosen his bonds with his toe-claws in a painful-looking movement that made Keith reflect distantly that Galra were more limber than most Humans, and he scrambled up and back, looking for any way to break up the fight. Lizenne wanted blood, that was very clear, and Erantha would not permit some commoner to defy her and live.

Finally, Lizenne put a foot wrong, or overextended, or something—Keith wasn't sure which, but she wobbled for just a split second, and it was just enough of an opening for Erantha to whirl and deliver a kick that knocked Lizenne flying. She landed hard against the stone and slumped there, stunned, unable to move as Erantha closed in for the kill. Before her knife could reach Lizenne's throat, Modhri was there, standing between them with arms spread to ward her away, the knifepoint quivering perhaps a half-inch from his breast. Modhri's features took on a hard cast that Keith had never seen before in the man, eyes hot and dangerous, and he bared his fangs at Erantha in defiance. _No,_ said his whole posture. _No,_ said the music itself, _carry this further, woman, and you must kill me as well. I have made the promise that cannot be broken._

Lizenne pulled herself painfully to her feet and took her place beside him, ready to continue the match if Erantha should decide to press the issue. Erantha hesitated, looking back and forth between them, her face showing dismay and no small amount of chagrin at Modhri's rejection of her. She backed away and sheathed her knife, pulling her self-control around herself like a cloak. _So be it,_ everything about that movement said, and she bowed slightly and left, radiating dignity.

Modhri and Lizenne watched her go, and then sagged in relief; Modhri wrapped his arms around his wife and buried his face in her hair, his shoulders trembling. Lizenne sheathed her knife as well and embraced him, but her eyes remained wary. She would watch and wait, but the next time someone issued a challenge, she would not hesitate to kill.

The lights dimmed, and once again Zaianne appeared atop the rock, dramatically underlit. “Telchamar did not return to make a second attempt, and such were her words concerning the battle that no other woman challenged Kerolla. Salchor did not succeed his father upon the throne, nor did any of his sons, but his daughters carried their parents' greatness into a new generation, and his grandson and great-grandson both took and held the Throne in their time. Thus ends the Courtship of Salchor and Kerolla. Hail to the ancient days, and learn from them! Never forget that this very moment in time might well be seen as legendary in the following eons, so make no choices that your descendants will regret.”

The lights went out. Keith heaved a long, shuddering breath, and realized that he was sweating, his heart pounding in his chest as if he had been involved in that battle.

“Holy crow,” Keith heard Lance say, sounding just as shaky as he felt, “was that real? I mean, did that actually happen in real life once?”

“Roughly ten thousand, two hundred years ago, give or take a decade or two,” Zaianne said with a smile, ambling in off of the stage. “That sort of thing still happens occasionally even today, although it's very rare that two strong witches will face off both magically and with weapons at the same time. That was absolutely magnificent, you three.”

Keith turned to see the three Galra approaching, looking breathless and tired, but triumphant. Modhri still had his arm around Lizenne's waist, and Keith was unsurprised to note that she had positioned herself between Erantha and Modhri. Erantha, whether it was instinctive or not, was walking a full arm's-length away from the pair. Distance, he recalled, and he'd just seen the reason why maintaining that distance was so important.

Modhri waggled a hand modestly. “Passable. My brother would doubtless have had an entire list of demerits to read off to us, and a list of possible improvements that would be three times as long. All the same, we did not dishonor either the epic or the music, I feel. I take it that you'll want a copy of the soundtrack as well, Pidge?”

Pidge fixed him with a steely glare. “Gimme. That wasn't the original you brought with you, was it?”

“Don't be silly,” Lizenne said with a smile. “The original—and it's a signed original, I'll have you know, is safely aboard the _Chimera._ Guarded by dragons most of the time, I might add.”

“ _Gronk,”_ Soluk said helpfully, looking very much the proper treasure-guardian.

“We will have perhaps ten or fifteen doboshes before the third dance,” Erantha said, and there was just a hint of smugness in her tone as she looked out at the milling throng in the tiers. “We have shaken no few of them to the very core, and they feel the need to recoup their strength, just in case the third dance is as potent as the second. You never showed us the correct steps for the all-inclusive dance, Hunk.”

Hunk waved a dismissive hand. “Keith and I were too busy trying to get Tilla to stop spinning, Lance was putting the finishing touches on the outfits, you and Modhri and Lizenne were too busy rehearsing, Shiro, Coran, and Allura had to ride herd on the repair guys, and keeping Pidge away from the repair guys would've been impossible anyway. It doesn't matter much, since the dance is really easy. Lance knows it by heart and I could do it in my sleep, and we'll have the original music video playing up on the screens, too. You guys wouldn't be standing here now if you weren't all fast learners. I'll lead off, and all you've gotta do is follow me. Simple.”

Erantha gave him a quizzical look. “We're to just... run onto the floor and join in?”

“Yup, just come on in however you want,” Hunk grinned at her. “It's totally in character, and you can do backflips or cartwheels or twirl along with Tilla... oh, crud, there she goes again. Soluk, would you stop her before she wears a hole in the floor? Or whatever else you want, and it would fit right in. It's all about having fun all together, and anyone can join in. It was super popular for a while back in the early Twenty-first Century, and it's come back on the retro circuit a bunch of times. It's a real classic.”

“It sounds like fun,” Coran said. “Knew a few dance styles of that nature, back in the day. There was a fad for free-form figures back when Alfor was a lad, and some of his aunties and uncles got quite enthusiastic about it. Got so there was a sort of informal competition going on between the Royal Family and the higher Nobles. Well, I _say_ informal, but things got pretty heated in some quarters. Got to be rather hard on the furniture, and the walls and ceiling, come to think of it. Alfor's mother eventually had to call a halt to the fun after the Grand Duchess of Thoquora and the Viscount of Pikrish-on-the-Heights wound up propelling each other right over the balcony rail and into the garden pond below. It was a lovely party, and I made off with an entire basket of brenthit tarts in the confusion.”

“How old were you at the time?” Shiro asked, smiling.

“Twelve, if you must know,” Coran replied with a nostalgic look in his eyes. “Alfor was more or less the same age, and we'd crept out of our rooms to hide under the liquid-refreshments table, the better to watch the fun, you see. And steal treats from the sideboards. We might have seen more, but we weren't the only two underage adventurers out and about that night. T'was a little girl who'd joined us, just as I was fetching the tarts, one of the many granddaughters of the Grand Duke of Southern Diramark. She and Alfor got into a fight over those tarts that tipped the table over, as I recall, and got us all grounded for a week, and she and Alfor swore never to forgive each other for the incident.”

Lizenne snorted. “A cub's sworn word is like flowers of frost; shining, pure, and lasting no longer than the sunrise. I take it that they reconciled in time?”

“Yes, I'd say so,” Coran said, tugging consideringly at his mustache. “Enough to eventually get married, in any case, although it still wasn't a good idea to get between Melenor and a fresh-baked brenthit tart.”

Allura giggled. “She did love them. Father and I had to make up batches in secret when she was out of the Castle if we wanted to get any of them at all.”

Hunk nudged her gently. “If you can dig up the recipe, I can run us up a few batches. We can sort of ceremonially offer your parents some and scarf the rest. Humans have a lot of rituals like that. It keeps them close.”

She smiled at him. “That would be very nice, thank you.”

They were interrupted at that point by an indignant squawk from Tilla; Soluk had caught her tail in his teeth, since trying to stop her rotations any other way had not worked. That backfired on him, alas, for she simply lunged forward and caught his tail in her own fangs and kept going, forcing them both into a double-dragon roundelay that threatened to knock over everything backstage. Trying to get them separated took up the rest of the intermission, and there was a great deal of muffled gronking that forced the official Granidlo to shout to get their attention.

“Hey!” the huge Drinth boomed, startling them all. “You're on in five. What's the holdup?”

Lizenne knocked a knuckle against Tilla's jaw, which was still clamped firmly on Soluk's tail. “Artistic temperament. Dragons can be a bit fractious at times.”

The Granidlo gave Tilla a dire look. “Reminds me of last week's diplomatic session. It was the Hwarks and the Nuppams fussing at each other over asteroid-mining rights again, and they looked exactly like that. Well, there's a way around this sort of thing.”

Before Tilla could duck away, the Granidlo's mallet smacked smartly against her nose, forcing her to open her mouth in order to vent a pained yelp. Soluk jerked his tail free and whirled around, intending to give her a nip on the ear, but he, too, was forestalled by a well-aimed bop on the snoot. Both dragons thumped down onto their haunches and gave the Granidlo injured looks.

“Very professionally done,” Modhri said.

“Practice,” the Granidlo replied, glowering unsympathetically at the sulking dragons. “Years and years of practice. It's not an easy job and you have to make a lot of snap decisions, but I love it. It pays well and I can smack people who really need smacking, and believe me, competition for the job is fierce. Now get out there and make the Council happy, you all. I overextended my shoulder a few weeks ago, and I'd prefer to keep the smacking to a minimum.”

Hunk drew himself up proudly, suspenders glittering. “I am so on this,” he said, and headed out onto the floor.

Keith watched him go with a certain unease. By and large, dancing had not interested him since before his father had died, and he had shunned the various school dances for good and sufficient reason. Even so, he knew of a number of freestyle dances that had been very popular on and off before they'd left, including one that had haunted him for much of his life. A nameless dread began to rise in the back of his mind as a single spotlight came on, illuminating Hunk in the dead center of the floor, and that dread gained a name when the opening bars of a very familiar song began pulsing out of the sound system. A ring of huge screens popped into existence high overhead, showing an equally familiar music video, and Keith watched in horror as a man with certain physical similarities to both Hunk and himself began to perform an act that had once made international news.

“ _No!”_ Keith yelped, backing away as Hunk began to dance along, grinning hugely and moving his bulk with remarkable skill. “Not this! Anything but this! Guys, make it stop!”

His plea fell on deaf ears, alas; everybody, even the mice and the dragons, were beginning to move with the driving beat. Lance gave his wild-eyed teammate a confused look. “Keith, what's your problem? This is perfect.”

Keith shook his head in denial. “It is not. Dad was obsessed with this stupid dance, and he made me dance with him every damned time. Even in school, whenever someone found out that I was part Korean, they hauled this thing out of storage. Every time! I thought that I was safe after Blue kidnapped us, that it couldn't have possibly followed me all the way out into the cosmos, but  _no!_ Here it is again!”

Lance grinned at him. “That still doesn't mean that it isn't perfect. 'Scuse me, I've gotta go get me some of that perfection. C'mon, guys.”

Lance sailed out to join Hunk, the dragons, the mice, Allura, and Erantha following behind.

Keith watched them go in helpless horror. “Mom, Shiro, not you too!”

“It was part of the agreement,” Shiro said with a shrug. “Besides, it looks like fun.”

Zaianne smiled at her son. “Khaeth, this is how your father brought me back to strength and surefootedness after I'd healed up from the crash. Ridiculous as it looks, it is a good way of honoring your sire. Stop whining and come along.”

“Pidge?” Keith pleaded, but all he got was a hard look and a finger wagged under his nose.

“You guys made me dance the Hokey-Pokey. Suck it up, Keith. Look, the Delegates are already joining in. That guy there doesn't even have feet, and if that thousand-year-old Grandpa Turtle over there can do it, so can you.”

“She does have a point,” Lizenne said, observing the rapidly-filling floor.

Modhri chuckled. “Come along, Keith, it's only for a handful of minutes, and then it's over. We'll have a nice dinner where we'll watch the Granidlo cut the traditional nine boring speeches short, and then we'll go back to the Castle where you can pretend that today never happened.”

Keith groaned, but accepted his fate. Defeated, he fell in behind them, following them out onto the dance floor and under the screens where a round little man of great talent declared to the universe at large: _Oppa Gangnam Style!_

Face set in a forbidding scowl, he nonetheless danced perfectly, the motions as deeply ingrained as his sword training. If nothing else, it gave him an opportunity to observe what was becoming a first-class revel. Just about every one of the government officials and all of their underlings had come down from their tiers, and some of them were bizarre. As Pidge had pointed out, there were people with no feet, both snail-like and serpentine, and the turtle-like aliens were surprisingly swift-footed and agile dancers. On the other hand, there were people with far too many feet, or with wings, fins, cilia, pseudopods, or tentacles, and there was one group of people who looked like jeweled beach balls bouncing enthusiastically in time to the beat. Even the Granidlo, still standing on one side of the floor, was tapping a forefoot and looking interested, which was about as much as one could hope for from a Drinth.

All of them, thankfully, were giving Tilla and Soluk a lot of room. Not being able to stand upright, they had compromised with a sort of bowlegged prance that looked very impressive, but the odd position made their feet just a little clumsy; whoever it was who looked after the floors here was going to be upset later. Keith could see the mice dancing on the dragons' backs, apparently having a great time, and he looked around reflexively for the rest of his group. Hunk and Lance had noticed that Shiro wasn't very good at this and had come up on either side of him, correcting his hands and stance and dancing alongside him in a show of perfect unity. Coran was hamming it up, of course, his long legs particularly suited to this activity. Allura seemed to glimmer in the lights like a pearl, and she danced along gracefully next to Erantha, a light-and-dark pairing that was very striking in more ways than one. Pidge had found partners among the local delegates and was leading her own troupe of brightly-colored small furry people. Zaianne was engaging in some fancy footwork that was raising a collective blush on a group of elderly gentlemen, and Lizenne and Modhri were attracting envious stares from a number of unattached young persons who had obviously never danced with someone that they loved. Everyone was having a good time but him, Keith thought, and yearned heartily for the music to finish.

At last, the final stance was achieved, and the screens went dark. A storm of cheering went up from the crowd, and Keith fought his way through the press of overexcited aliens to Hunk, who was beaming like a searchlight. He caught his teammate's arm and hissed into his ear, _“Gangnam style?_ Really, Hunk? I hate that thing.”

Hunk cast him an amused look. “You left it up to me, Keith. Besides, I'm good at it, and it doesn't take long for anyone else to get good at it, too.”

Lance caught Keith's shoulder and grinned as he gave Keith a little shake. “Hunk won the Galaxy Garrison's bi-monthly dance contest three times in a row with this one, Keith. Cool it, will you? You're as grumpy as Kolivan is. We're going to have to get you some remedial courses in having fun if this keeps up.”

Keith was about to deliver a stinging reply, but somebody nearby had started shouting, _“Encore! Encore!”_

“ _NO!”_ Keith howled desperately, a part of him praying to whatever might be listening for something, anything to spare him from dancing again.

As if in answer, a shattering explosion ripped through the air, and the floor under their feet lurched and shook, sending many people tumbling to the floor. The cheers turned to screams of panic as one side of the room shuddered and collapsed, tearing open to show that the western wing of the Council Hall had been hit as well, and was now a pile of burning wreckage. With a tearing groan, the floor on that side buckled and collapsed, dropping many of the delegates into the basements below. The strain was too much for the false ceiling as well; with a great screech of tortured steel and sharp cracks as cables gave way, the light fixtures fell in showers of sparks, the canvas ripping into huge strips and falling in heavy folds atop the revelers as the room went abruptly dark. Sirens began to blare as tall figures rushed through the enormous hole in the wall, and through the Council Chamber's doorways as well.

“Yes!” Keith said, glad for the prospect of a real fight. “Thank you, God!”

“Keith!” Allura chided, but she already had her laser whip out and glowing hotly. “This is terrible! There are soldiers and Sentries everywhere!”

He flashed her a quick grin. “Yeah, but this is now _my_ kind of party. Come on!”

“Savage,” she grumbled, but rushed to help him all the same.

This was not as easy as it looked; two-thirds of the crowd were in a frenzy of terror and the rest were bellowing demands for explanations at the tops of their voices, which is how high officials panic. The invaders ignored them entirely, moving to surround the entire floor as the emergency lights started to flicker to life. Those were no help at all; it was rather obvious that that particular system was original to the building; many of the lights sputtered out or failed to activate, and the ones that did come on did so with a sort of insipid green glow that did more to highlight the shadows than dispel them. As a result, it was nearly impossible to make out individuals in the murk. Nonetheless, a group of five burly figures pushed through the press of soldiers and Sentries, yellow eyes gleaming in the dim light.

“Aliens!” the biggest of them boomed in a harsh voice that made the crowd go quiet. “You are harboring the Paladins of Voltron, the foremost enemies of the Empire, and have gone so far as to aid and abet them. This is treachery against the Emperor himself, and the punishment is immediate execution. You will submit quietly, or--”

He choked off, staring down in disbelief at the small glowing hole that had appeared in his breastplate before sagging bonelessly to the floor.

“No,” Erantha said, her voice cutting clearly through the sudden shocked silence, and took aim at another officer.

The remaining officers scattered, barking orders to attack, and the soldiers started shooting, driving the crowd into a frenzy of sheer panic. Half-deafened by the screaming rising up all around him, Shiro shook his left wrist, and the shield generator concealed in the cuff came alive, deflecting several blasts.

“We've got to get the Councilmembers to safety!” he shouted over the noise, “Pidge, Keith, can you shut down the Sentries?”

Reflexively, the red and green Paladins reached out toward the mechanical soldiers, getting a feel for the harsh purple glare of the aetheric shielding they carried. This was an older batch, they discovered, and those shields were nothing like as strong as what they had faced only a few days ago. Pidge grinned, summoning not one single Spike of Hantis in her mind, but rather a swarm of smaller ones, like darning needles; Keith threaded them with cleansing fire, and then sent them on their way with such force that the Sentries nearest to them exploded. The rest dropped in their tracks, leaving only the living soldiers to contend with, and Lance knew how to deal with that.

“Tilla! Soluk!” he yelled, _“Hokey-Pokey!”_

The two dragons roared and began to spin wildly, their huge feet crushing the fallen Sentries and sending the soldiers and delegates alike scrambling for safety.

“Yes!” Lance yelled triumphantly. “Now, _that's_ what it's all about!”

Shiro nodded in approval at the confusion that this was causing, and then spotted movement by the huge hole in the wall. There were things out there, very large things, and they were coming to join the fun. “Any idea of what those are, Hunk?”

Hunk glanced over at the oncoming monsters and groaned. “Cyborgs. Big ones. Just a few of them, but there don't have to be all that many around to do a lot of damage. Guys, I'm gonna need help with those!”

“Get to it, then,” Shiro said, looking around for Zaianne and the others and seeing them already in the thick of the fighting; the Council Hall's own security detachment had arrived, and was disputing the invaders' authority right alongside his friends. The Granidlo in particular was in rare form, felling soldiers right and left with powerful swings of dans mallet. Some of the Council members and their staff were fighting as well, which helped. “I'll help Lizenne and the rest. Close up that breach, too, if you can.”

“On it!” Hunk said, pulling out his bayard and heading toward the hulking figures at the far end of the room.

Shiro watched his team go, and then pulled out his own bayard and leaped into the fray.

Modhri had managed to get a blaster away from one of the soldiers and was firing with grim precision at their foes from behind the crumpled wreckage of one of the big arc lights, and was even managing to hold down a squad of troops. He wouldn't be able to keep that up for much longer, Shiro knew, and another group of soldiers was already hurrying over in his direction. Without even thinking, Shiro put himself between his friend and his foes, and they recoiled in surprise at the sight of him.

One of them gasped in recognition, fangs bared. “White forelock... the Champion. That's the black Paladin, I saw him fight once in the arena. _Get him!”_

They tried, Shiro thought in passing, they really did, but his technique had improved since those lost and desperate days of his first captivity, and he was no longer alone in his battles. Even as he smashed the leader to the floor, another was picked off by a burgundy ghost, and a wildwoman with eyes of golden flame dropped another. A little distance away, he saw Coran cutting a swath of his own through the enemy's forces by swinging on what was left of the light fixtures, laying his targets low with one of the prototype bayards and whooping in excitement. A darker shadow flickered briefly by to flatten two more soldiers, and Modhri dealt with the last with a solid punch across the face that the man would be feeling all week. Shiro nodded his thanks and continued on at their side, his bayard drawing blue-purple sheets of radiance in the air as he disarmed and disabled those who came to face them. Dimly, he felt the Lion-bond pulse with a quick sequence of colors: a hot red burst that burned something foul away, a tangle of green that halted something in its tracks, a surge of rose that fed those powers. A glaze of ice followed that, and a landslide of gold; when Shiro had time to glance over at the breach in the wall, he found that it had been barred off. Hunk had used the structural beams and broken plumbing in the walls themselves to seal that entrance, and Lance had added a wall of ice for good measure. With a smile, Shiro turned his attention back to the soldiers, who were starting to lose cohesion. One of their commanders was dead, another had been knocked flat by the Granidlo, and a third had fallen afoul of Soluk and was screaming for help from between the dragon's jaws. The fourth was trying to keep up with Zaianne and failing, and the fifth...

Shiro dropped, knocked another soldier to the floor with a leg sweep and bashed him unconscious with an armored fist before taking a look around. He hadn't gotten too good a look at the commanders when they'd first come forward, but one of them was missing. _We'll find him eventually,_ Shiro thought, and then tossed Modhri the soldier's gun. They had work to do right now.

“Keep it busy, keep it busy!” Pidge shouted to the others and dove to one side as a metal fist that was almost as large as her torso slammed into the spot where she had stood a second before. “Look out for the other one!”

The mechanical monstrosity screamed at her and struck again, missing by inches, its massive fist hitting the floor so hard that the plates buckled, and something beneath them went _crack_. Its partner was trying to circle around to come at them from the other side in a pincer attack, slashing at them with long blades of glowing purple. The Paladins had gotten lucky with the first one, which had been large and bulky and not terribly well-coordinated, and Hunk's EMP-bomb bow tie had slowed it down considerably. These were newer, more advanced models, and were fast and agile enough to make Pidge and the others really miss their armor. At least they didn't have to worry about interference; the panicking politicians had fled in terror from the cyborgs, and the soldiers knew better than to get too close while the giants were enraged.

Hunk ducked under a swing that would have taken his head off and gave the cyborg an almost point-blank burst of fire from his bayard that left smoking craters in the thing's armor and made it howl in rage. “Not good,” he shouted to the others. “Feel that? Haggar's got a new lab set up somewhere, and she's upgraded.”

“We knew that already, Hunk,” Allura said, snapping her laser-whip out to entangle the other cyborg's legs. “She couldn't have just conjured up that last Robeast out of nothing, you know.”

“I know,” Hunk replied, jumping aside so that Lance could shoot out his cyborg's knees; the monster screeched and staggered, crippled but still dangerous. “But she's gotta have more than one lab. She's got Zarkon's favor, right? That means she gets all the labs. A big lab for big stuff, a medium-sized lab for things like these, a bio-lab for messing with people parts...”

“Don't remind me, Hunk,” Lance groaned in a sick voice. “I've had it up to here with people-parts labs, okay? That last one was really bad.”

“No argument there,” Keith said grimly; he still had the occasional nightmare about their retrieval of what had been left of Shiro. “Pidge? Are you seeing what I'm seeing?”

“Yeah,” she panted, dodging a massive overarm slash. “Their shields are in sync, just like those battleships we saw earlier. Hold on...”

It was almost reflexive now. Pidge generated the Spike and Keith set it alight. The shielding on the cyborgs exploded in a shower of purple fragments even as the impact of the fire-arrow staggered the cyborgs. Instantly, Allura pulled a big dose of Quintessence from their cores, purified it, and sent it along in a bright stream to Hunk and Lance, who froze their moving parts and fried their circuitry. The two cyborgs died instantly, collapsing in steaming heaps while Allura shared what was left of their Quintessence with the rest of the team. Performing aetheric methods of this nature was efficient, but wearying, and it was essential that they keep their strength up. They didn't have to like it, though.

“I hate having to do that,” Hunk grumbled, looking around for other threats. “It always makes me feel so guilty, but there's nothing else that we can do. How about after this we go find Haggar's new lab and crunch that one up too, okay?”

“Sign me up,” Lance said, giving one defunct cyborg a kick. “We'll make a rock tour of it or something. Yeah, we'll be Fantastic Lance and the Paladins, and we'll do Crash Industrial Death-Metal gigs on all of her best venues. The Lions can do that all day. They _are_ that. Are we done here?”

“Not quite,” Allura said, scanning around the room and pointing at a knot of fighting. “Shiro and the others could use some help.”

“Then let's give it to them,” Keith said, and took off at a run, the others right behind him.

Shiro grinned and lifted a hand in salute when his team rejoined him, and breathed a sigh of relief when a touch from Allura's hand sent a pulse of fresh energy into his body, renewing his strength. The enemy was starting to realize that they had made a serious mistake, and the soldiers were beginning to lose heart. That didn't surprise Shiro at all—their leaders had fallen, their erstwhile victims had either made it to safety or were fighting back with unexpected gusto, and Tilla and Soluk were cutting wide swaths through their forces with their jaws, tails, and forepaws. Add in a pack of angry Paladins to that mix, and you had a real problem. The local garrison soldiers simply had not ever encountered this kind of resistance before and weren't ready for it, and Shiro was intent on pressing his side's advantage. Having two Blades, a witch, and an expert marksman helping only made it easier. He heard Lance's bayard bark out several quick shots, followed by the heavy chatter of Hunk's scattergun, and the subtler hiss and crack of Allura's laser whip. He smiled to see Pidge dance past him, using the knife lessons that Nasty had taught her to confound a hulking Galra—once inside his reach, all she had to do was stay right up close to have it all her own way. There was a crackle of green light, and the soldier collapsed with an agonized screech.

Shiro took down a few more himself before he heard Soluk let out an offended bellow. Glancing to one side, he saw that the dragon had been blindsided by a lean dark figure that was trying to hamstring him with a laser sword. No chance of that—dragonhide could shrug off blaster fire, and a kick from Soluk sent the offensive person flying. Surprisingly, his attacker rolled with the landing, sprang back up, and attacked again. Soluk roared, heaved himself up onto his hind feet, and brought his foreclaws down onto the floorplates hard enough to split the already damaged surface. The swordsman and at least a dozen more soldiers vanished as the floor gave way beneath them, and Shiro made a mental note that all three basements would have to be checked and cleared after the fight was over. That was for later; right now, a very large, fanged, and angry Galra was doing his best to knock him down. Shiro ducked under the man's swing, rammed his shielded shoulder into the broad chest, and followed up with a double punch to the gut, just where the upper and lower armor met and didn't quite overlap. The soldier's breath _whuffed_ out explosively, and he wasn't able to stop the finishing blow that knocked him to the floor. Grim and full of purpose, Shiro soldiered on.

“Are we done yet?” Hunk panted, sagging down onto a heap of smashed Sentries. “We've sort of run out of enemies in here.”

Allura rubbed at her eyes and looked around. She'd lost her skirt somewhere during the fighting, and most of her brooches were gone as well. “I think so. The police and medical corps seem to have things well enough in hand. Oh, dear, what a terrible mess.”

Hunk patted her on the back in agreement. The sun was coming up over the horizon now, and the clear dawn light was shining through Lance's now-melting ice wall to illuminate a scene of destruction. Fully half of the tiers had collapsed in a jagged mass of wreckage on either side of the broken wall, and the smashed western wing of the building was still smoldering a bit. The floor looked like the bedrock in an earthquake zone, the light fixtures were a total loss, and there were long, ugly cracks in the walls.

“Structural damage,” Hunk muttered, his eyes following one particularly bad crack all the way up to the shadowy dome above. “Bad damage. They might have to tear down the whole building, and that's a shame. I could fix it, I think, but the Drinths will probably want to get us off of the planet as fast as possible before we attract any more trouble.”

Allura rolled her eyes and rested a hand on his shoulder sympathetically. “We do seem to attract calamity, don't we? You're probably right. They weren't exactly happy to see us in the first place, and will no doubt curse our names forever.”

“That's perfectly natural for Drinths,” Coran said, popping up at her elbow and handing her and Hunk a large slice of cake each. “They just don't feel right if a contract is completed without any reason to grumble about it. This will give them enough peeve fuel to last a decade. Eat up, eat up, you've all expended a great deal of energy, and this cake was all that was left of the after-party feast. Here, I've got some beverage packets, too.”

Hunk gratefully accepted a couple of packets and took a big bite out of his cake. “Thanks. What happened to the rest of it?”

Coran pointed a finger at the ruined floor. “The kitchens are right under this chamber, I'm sorry to say, and when the ceiling collapsed that first time, it dropped a whole passel of politicians right into the ready room—splat! I'm told that the cooks had a terrible time getting the Yipmo Ambassador out of the soup-pot. Bimic-root chowder's apparently one of his favorites. Apparently, it was raining high officials and startled soldiers for a while there, and they've all run off into the sublevels. Might be weeks before they find 'em all.”

Allura made a sour noise under her breath. “Lovely. And our ships? I cannot believe that the Galra would attack us without going after the Castle and the _Chimera_ as well.”

Coran chuckled and handed her a napkin. “An attempt was made, right enough. According to the police chief over there, the fellow who's busy booking that Galra sergeant? They tried to shut down the entire repair docks in violation of at least thirty different contracts and treaties, and there was a bit of a fight between them and the dock's security corps. Might have gone badly for the defenders, but the Castle and the _Chimera_ raised their shields, just like that, and the _Chimera_ started taking potshots at the invaders! Just warning shots, perhaps, nothing big enough to do more than blast a few small craters, but it was enough to convince the blighters to keep their distance. They had a few of those big robot things there too, and... well, I did say _'had'._ Are Hanifor AI's usually so belligerent?”

That last was directed at Modhri, who had come up beside them looking tired and slightly singed around the edges. “No. Hanifors are strict pacifists and prefer a well-behaved ship. They can learn from what they observe, though, and it's been learning things from us that its creators never anticipated. I'm not going to complain, although everyone else might. The Governor is going to get a truckload of official complaints and censures for this disaster. Are you two all right?”

“We're fine, just tired,” Hunk mumbled around the last bite of cake. “Is everybody else all right?”

Modhri nodded. “They're as well as can be expected. A few bruises, scrapes, and the odd singe is all, and I think that Shiro may have overdone it a little—I know that I have. Lizenne, Zaianne, and Erantha are livid at the invasion, of course, and the dragons will need a dip in the marsh and a good polishing. The mice took refuge up there--” he pointed up at the second-floor balcony, where a quartet of tiny figures were watching them, “--and are all quite unharmed. Those little antigrav strips that Lance sewed into their coats got them out of harm's way very handily.”

“Good,” Allura said, although her brows pinched in concern for the wounded delegates. “And our hosts?”

Modhri heaved a long sigh and sank down next to Hunk. “They were not so fortunate. Most of them had personal protection devices, but not all of them were up to deflecting blaster fire and structural collapses. A great many are injured, some seriously, and there have been a number of deaths. More importantly, a fairly large number of people are missing on both sides. Some of them went for height, up to the upper floors and the dome, and others ran and hid in the eastern wing. Thankfully, the western wing was empty. Everybody there had shut up shop early to come to the dance.”

“Small mercies,” Coran said. “I expect that the basements are full of soldiers and staff, eh?”

Modhri cast a worried look at the gaping holes in the floor. “Very likely, and they're not happy about that. One of the leaders of the invasion is still unaccounted-for, and it's possible that that one's still down there somewhere. Apparently, that particular officer has great skill with a sword, a filthy temper, and a serious mental imbalance that flares up in times of stress. At the very least, there will be a fair number of confused and frightened troops.”

“Great,” Hunk said sourly. “Let me guess, it's up to us to flush them out?”

Modhri pointed at a group of people a distance away that appeared to be embroiled in an argument. “That's what they're discussing now. Some are saying that this whole mess was our fault, some are saying that it wasn't, others are threatening to sue for damages, while others are demanding to know just why the building hasn't been maintained properly. It shouldn't have been so easy to collapse, you know.”

Hunk frowned and opened his perceptions a little, getting a feel for the bones of the building. “It's old, is all. Yeah, and whoever built it cut a few corners here and there, and they've been ignoring the upper floors and parts of the roof. Foundations... east and middle's okay, but the west end's hopeless. Shame, really. It was a nice building.”

Allura sighed and finished off her beverage packet. “I do feel somewhat responsible. We could certainly help with the rescue effort, if we were quick about it. I don't want to linger too long here; word of this event will travel, and I would very much prefer that we were well away before a fleet arrives and starts firing on the city.”

Hunk groaned, but stood up. “Yeah, like if Lotor shows up again. That Robeast didn't bust up his flagship, guys, it just dinged it a little, and he's good at stealing other ships for his fleet. I'm starting to get really tired of that guy, so let's go and sort this out before anything else happens.”

That was good enough reasoning for all of them, and they helped Modhri to his feet and ambled over to see who was winning the shouting match. So far, it seemed to be a draw between a spotty, pigeon-chested person in torn formal robes, the equally-disheveled Drinth First Speaker, a dignitary who resembled a huge twist of pink-and-blue spaghetti, and Shiro, who had a truculent expression on his face and cake crumbs on his chin. Standing nearby was the Granidlo, who had lost most of dans formal jacket but still had both dans mallet and wristwatch, and was prepared to use both.

“Sorry about this,” Allura said, sidling up to that worthy, “we didn't expect things to get so out of hand.”

The Granidlo shrugged, dans eyes never leaving dans watch. “No one ever does. It's okay, lady, I've racked up a load of overtime and hazard pay, and they've been wrangling over whether or not to renovate this old pile for years. They generally bring up the subject whenever there's something big and sensitive on the table that nobody wants to deal with. Well, no more excuses. I'll cut that wrangle short in another _flenth_ or two, and then they can get down to cases.”

She gave the Drinth a perplexed look. “How can you be so casual about it? Quite a lot of people just died here!”

The Granidlo gave her an amused glance out of one eye, the other three still on the time. “Politics is a rough game around here, lady. The Councilmembers get elected for the job by their parties, not 'cause they're particularly skilled, but because they're expendable. It's the parties themselves that do all the dealmaking—the Members are just mouthpieces, and we've got an election coming up soon that would've replaced most of them anyway. It ain't all that uncommon for fights to break out while in session, and a lot of those guys come armed. For some of them, the only way to get a seat on the Council is to defeat the guy who's already got it in single combat. Election season is always noisy. Hold that thought.”

The Granidlo stepped up smartly and gave the Speaker, the pigeon-chested dignitary, and the spaghetti-person a smart rap on the head each, although Shiro was adroit enough to duck away before the mallet could connect. “That's enough, you lot,” the Granidlo said sharply, “now cool it and make a workable plan.”

Surprisingly, none of the three seemed to take offense at this rough treatment. Indeed, the Speaker waved a polite gesture dans way and continued in a normal tone of voice. “Yes, yes, thank you, you're quite right. Well done, dani. We'll discuss the legal and political ramifications later, gentlebeings. Right now, the focus must be on the search-and-rescue effort. Some of those politicians are quite expensive.”

“What?” Allura blurted, horrified.

Hunk nudged her in the ribs with one elbow. “This is bureaucracy in action, Allura, and at least these guys are honest about it. It's a lot like what we've got on Earth, only more efficient. We seriously need to get a Granidlo working in Congress.”

“She's right, you know,” Shiro said with a smile. “I've always felt that a big man with a mallet would do our governments a lot of good.”

She gave them a suspicious look. “Have you ever tried a monarchy?”

“Only for most of our recorded history,” Lance admitted. “It's just that Humans aren't really all that good at it. The royal families wind up marrying their cousins for fourteen generations at a stretch—when they weren't fighting them to the death, anyway—and start forgetting that the common people are actually people and not toys or robots or something. We invented democracy because it's cheaper and easier to get rid of an elected official when he starts making dumb mistakes, and nobody needs to chop anybody's head off or anything. Not usually, anyway.”

“You mean, that's actually happened?” Allura demanded.

“Sure,” Pidge said, wrinkling up her nose in distaste. “It used to happen all the time, right up into the modern era. One of the worst events was in France, when the citizenry decided to get rid of their inbred, parasitical aristocrats. They even built a special machine for it, called a guillotine, with a big weighted blade that dropped down when you pulled the lever. They got kind of carried away with that thing, though, and it didn't end real well. It sort of became the universal symbol of what happens when an oppressed population fights back later on. Around about the end of World War III, there were four or five of them in action. I think that the first one was built in the South American Republic, and the idea sort of spread. The Sovereign Nation of Texas built one, and it got so much use that the USA had to reabsorb them as a state again before they could dissolve into total anarchy. The other two happened in Europe and India, and there are rumors that China and the Pan-Baltic Hegenomy had some, but that was never confirmed. All we know for sure is that a lot of bad government officials went missing. People just get fed up after a while.”

“Fine,” Allura said with a disgusted sigh, and brushed the crumbs from Shiro's chin with quick fingers. “Let's find the others and get this over with so that we can leave. I'd rather not face any more upsets tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song and all-inclusive dance are, of course, Gangam Style by PSY. I really wanted to title the chapter "Oppa Gronkam Style", but that would have given it away. ^_~ And as you all can see, we are still obsessed with ancient Galra culture.
> 
> I say this a lot, but a huge thank you to everyone who takes a moment to comment or leave kudos. They encourage Spanch and I to keep going and cheer us up when the world feels dark and awful. This is especially true starting now through the next couple months, since I work retail and the Holiday Season is a time where everything revs up to warp speed and makes me want to toss anything red and green that's not Paladin related out a window. So if you see a flailing madwoman run screaming down the street somewhere in the space between Thanksgiving and New Years, please give her a kind word and a Lion plushie, because that person may just be me. ^^;


	18. The Monster in the Basement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all! I bring you another chapter, and please note the change in warning tags! This chapter gets really violent in spots, with graphic description of injury. Please be good to yourselves.

Chapter 18: The Monster in the Basement

The rest of the team were all in favor of that idea, but there was one small problem; even though one whole third of the building had been destroyed, the remaining two thirds were a maze of odd corners and corridors where people could and had gotten lost for years at a time. The corps of guest-finders were just as lost as everyone else was right now, and it seemed that nobody had ever bothered to devise a system for keeping track of them by electronic means. Pidge in particular was heartily offended by this.

“What do you mean they voted against it?” she demanded. “It would have saved everybody a lot of time and trouble!”

“Job security,” the Speaker explained. “The guest-finders have a good thing going, and they don't want anyone building a device that would essentially put them out of business. I take it that you have such a thing, young lady?”

Pidge cast a sidelong look at the Granidlo. “You're not bopping enough people.”

“There's only one of me, Miss,” the Granidlo protested, “and I'm not contracted to sit in on the secret councils.”

Pidge rolled her eyes heavenward. “Yes, I've got that technology. I've got one built into my armor, and can make more if I have to. I've even got it loaded into my party dress. You wouldn't happen to have any of those portable notescreens, would you? The little ones for personal use?”

“Oh, yes, a whole closet full,” the Speaker replied helpfully, “people are always forgetting theirs, so we keep a good supply in stock. I believe that the cleaning staff does a good business in selling the information they get from the ones that the delegates drop under the seats. It's all part of the system, of course.”

“Good,” Pidge said, not willing to argue at this time, and she removed and began to unbraid the waistband of her skirt. “Hunk, gonna need you for this. Let's make these people a whole bunch of lifesign-detectors.”

“Cool,” Hunk replied, following her lead.

It took only a few minutes to turn a closetful of notescreens into lifesign sensors, thanks to Pidge's amazing computer-suit and Hunk's own native talents, which were then passed out to the various search parties. After that, it was simply a case of who got to search what part of the huge building. Pidge, Allura, Coran, and Erantha agreed to help with the abandoned upper floors and domes, while Lizenne, Modhri, Zaianne, Shiro, Hunk, and the mice were happy to help with the back halls of the central chamber and the complicated warren of the eastern wing. That left only one section, which the Speaker seemed peculiarly willing to ignore.

“What about the basements?” Keith asked.

The Speaker shrugged. “A professional team of guest-finders and policemen have already gone to handle that end of things, and they should be well-able to handle anyone they find. The basements themselves are mostly large open spaces where we keep the bulk supplies, and there really aren't all that many places to hide down there. Even with the power out, it shouldn't be too difficult for them, and anyone in those sublevels will be perfectly happy to be guided out in any case.”

Lance gave the Speaker a puzzled look. “Is the kitchen equipment dangerous or something?”

The Speaker waved a dismissive hand. “Of course not. It's just that darkened basements are by nature dank and spooky, and those emergency lights aren't really all that good, are they?”

Lance and Keith glanced up at the greenish lights still glowing fitfully on the walls, glanced back at each other, and shrugged. “We'll check up on them anyway,” Keith said. “Modhri told us that there might be a crazy man with a sword down there, and those are always bad news.”

Lance frowned and looked over at Soluk, who was sniffing suspiciously at a cringing soldier. “Think we should bring the dragons?”

The Speaker gestured a negative. “The stairways are too steep and narrow for those creatures. We had lifts put in, but those are out of order at the moment. The dragons will be of better use up here, making sure that the captured suspects mind their manners. Unless one of your fellows wishes to go along with you...?”

Lance waved a hand airily. “Nah. Sounds like you've already got things pretty much covered. We'll go and see if the basement crews need help, and if they don't, we'll come back up and help out a different group. That okay with you, Keith?”

“Sure,” Keith said. “So, how do we get down there?”

The Speaker pointed at a nearby door. “Through there. Turn left at the first intersection, and left again at the next. You'll see a stairwell going down, which will lead you to the central area of the first sublevel, just to the left of the kitchens. The stairwells leading down from there are toward the back on both that level and the next. They're largely unused, since the lifts are so much handier, and there may be some damage from the collapse of the west wing.”

“Right,” Lance said, “that's easier than a lot of the dungeon maps for Pidge's adventure game. Come on, Keith, let's go hunt some Orcs.”

They stared at the stairwell. It was not an inviting sight, and it seemed to breathe menace at them. Unlike the rest of the building, this particular feature had been neglected for long enough to show its age, and the years had not improved it. Like many industrial installments, it had been built as cheaply and quickly as possible, out of materials that had been estimated to last until roughly about the time when the owner decided to do a total gut and refit; a time, alas, that had come and gone roughly a century ago. The stairs had been constructed of some sort of steel grating, sturdy, but showing diseased-looking patches of rust, and were narrow and very steep. They also went down a very long way into a stygian, faintly green-lit darkness that conjured up mental images of dreadful things lurking in the shadows. A number of Lance's early nightmares had concerned such deep places and the things they harbored, and he backed away uneasily from the steps.

“I take that back,” he muttered unhappily. “Maybe we should give the Orc-hunt a rain check.”

Keith cast him an exasperated look and turned on his lifesign detector. “You know better than that. Let's see... huh. There aren't all that many people down there.”

Lance frowned at the screen. The little device wasn't quite powerful enough to show more than one sublevel at a time, but Keith was right. There were only three indicators on the screen where there should have been at least a dozen. “Maybe the rescue team already got most of them out?”

“I don't know,” Keith replied, scowling down into the darkness. There was a faint odor wafting up from below that didn't smell quite like damp or fungus, and it was making his instincts twitch. “I don't think that they've been down there for long enough—those are big basements, and it takes time to search even an empty one.”

“Maybe they're on the lower floors, then?” Lance asked. “People get kind of dumb when they panic, and they'll wedge themselves into the weirdest places. We had a hurricane hit Cuba when I was little, not one of the really big ones, but pretty bad, and we had Aunt Lucia and her family with us at the time.”

Keith gave his teammate a tolerant look. “Carlos freaked out?”

Lance shook his head. “Him? Nah. He was plastered to the living-room window the whole time, watching the storm and cheering it on. It was his little brother Bobby who freaked out. The neighbors had this big tree in their front yard, and this huge bolt of lightning blew it to pieces, and Bobby ran screaming into the back of the house. Aunt Lucia nearly had a heart attack 'cause we couldn't find him for three hours, and it wasn't until Mom made up a pot of his favorite chili that we heard him yelling for some. He'd somehow gotten into the space between the walls, and Uncle Diego had to cut a hole in the pantry wall to get him out.”

Keith, as always, felt a mix of envy of his teammate for his large and rambunctious family, and relief that he'd never had to deal with problem cousins. “Big house.”

“It sort of had to be,” Lance said nostalgically. “There were a lot of us, after all, and... what was that?”

A faint sound had echoed up from below, high and sharp, sounding almost like a scream. Glancing nervously at the detector, they noticed that one of the indicators on the screen had vanished, and the other two were suddenly moving very fast. One was darting about in a random, almost frantic pattern, and the second was following, but without the hysterical jinking about. The first one made it to a point in the back of the central area and faded out, but the second wasn't far behind it.

Keith hissed one of his mother's best swearwords under his breath. “That crazy guy's still down there, and he's hunting. Come on!”

Jamming the detector into a pocket and pulling out his bayard, Keith grabbed the handrail and half-flung himself down the stairs. Lance dithered for a brief moment, but followed him down the rickety steps and into the green-tinted darkness. It was cool down there, and somewhat humid in that cold, clammy way that underground spaces often were, but the natural odors of damp and cheap paint were occluded by other smells. Mostly cooking smells, due to the stairwell's proximity to the kitchens, and an interrupted kitchen at that. There was the distinctive odor of decades-old dust and crumbling insulation that one got when walls or ceilings were opened up, mixing with the smells of congealing gravy, cold soup, overcooked vegetables, burnt bread, souring drinks, and pastries just starting to go stale. Lance knew those smells very well from innumerable neighborhood cookouts held back home, where everyone had been eager to participate in the feasting but not so much in the cleanup afterward. He might even have felt nostalgic about it, except for one more smell that overlaid everything else. It wasn't all-pervasive, or not yet, but it was an old, dark, thick, foul stink that raised the hairs not only on the back of his neck, but all down his spine. Lance shuddered. He'd smelled something like it once, years ago, and it raised a cold feeling of dread in his mind and made his stomach churn in a greasy spiral.

Keith was feeling it, too, but differently; his predator instincts knew exactly what that smell meant, and had thrown his mind into a preternatural alertness at that tell-tale odor of fresh death. There was a hunter down here in this darkness, a large and very dangerous one, and most of his packmates were elsewhere. His eyes widened, adjusting to the dim light as best they could; perhaps two out of every five of the emergency lights were working, and even his sensitive vision was having trouble penetrating the murk. Even so, it didn't take long before they found the first piece of hard evidence as to just what kind of monster was lurking in the sublevels. It lay halfway to the next stairwell in a bulky heap, as it turned out, and their footsteps splatted rather than echoed on the bare duracrete floor. Lance choked in horror at the sight of the cooling corpse, but something in Keith's mind had gone hard and cold.

“Drinth,” he said tonelessly, laying a hand on the dead alien's shoulder. “Not even cold yet. Probably one of the cooks. He got trapped down here when the power went out.”

“Holy crow,” Lance moaned, “whoever did it knew just where to hit him, too. Big blade, right across the throat. His head's nearly been cut off. Oh, god, Keith, we're standing in blood. That's a lot of blood, Keith.”

Keith swallowed hard. “Yeah. And there's going to be more. A lot more. This is only the first floor, and this guy wasn't alone.”

Lance looked up and stared around in horror. His eyes had adjusted to the dim light now, and he saw that the corpse was only one of many. A large group of kitchen staff and aliens had been making their way toward the stairwell when something terrible had hit them from behind in a dance of death. Far away, they heard another echoing shriek of agony and terror. Keith yanked the detector out of his pocket, and they saw an indicator fade out on the floor below, and three others moving at speed. Without another word, both of them leaped into a run, heading for the stairwell as fast as they could go. Even so, it took them some time to find it; someone had placed several rows of large pallets full of wrapped office supplies all along the back of the first sublevel, and they had to thread their way through the bulky things in near-total darkness. Lance found the stairwell completely by accident and would have plunged to his death if Keith hadn't grabbed his arm just in time—the handrails had been snapped off of their footings years ago by some clumsy drone operator, and never replaced. Drinths, after all, did not normally use stairs. That was made abundantly clear, unfortunately. Slumped against the bottom steps was another recent corpse, and gravity had not been any kinder to it than the maddened swordsman had.

“Holy crow,” Lance muttered again as they eased their way as respectfully as possible over the dead Drinth. “How crazy do you think this guy is, Keith? Sendak-crazy or sack-of-Golrazi-clams crazy?”

“Not now, Lance,” Keith replied tensely, scanning around for the killer. There were more crumpled forms scattered around nearby, some of them in pieces. Distantly, he heard the rapid patter of running feet. “Over there!”

They took off in the appropriate direction, but were forced to stop when Keith's foot landed on something that skidded out from under it, and he landed hard on the floor with a surprised yelp. The loose object skipped off to one side, bounced off of some other obstruction, and hit Lance smartly on the knee. He stumbled to a halt, rubbing at the bruised joint, and helped Keith up.

“You okay?” Lance asked.

“Yeah,” Keith said breathlessly, rubbing at a sore hip. “Stepped on something. What was that?”

Lance groped around on the floor and came up with an strangely-shaped bit of debris that felt oddly familiar in his hands. “Not sure. I can't see much of anything down here, Keith.”

“Hold on, let me try something,” Keith said, holding out a hand and concentrating. A small flame bloomed on his palm like a flower and spread over the hand, burning away the dirt he'd picked up during the fighting and shedding a modest amount of light in the process. Enough to see that Lance was holding roughly half of a standard Galra blaster, and enough to see its former owner lying on the floor. Most of him, anyway. His head seemed to have had a prior engagement somewhere else. Another lay nearby, the neat slot in the backplate telling of a stab to the heart. Both Paladins yelled in horror and Keith's fire went out.

“Sendak-crazy,” Keith stated after a shocked moment. “He's killing his own men now.”

“We've gotta stop this guy,” Lance said, staring around nervously. “Oh, god, Keith, careful where you step. There are more of them.”

A cluster of dim, fizzing green emergency lights revealed that to be true, the sickly glow of them reflecting dully off of armor. “Crud,” Keith muttered and reached for his detector, finding it gone. “Damn. Dropped the detector. I can't tell if there's anyone still alive down below. Lance, can you feel anything? This is more your thing than mine.”

“Uh...” Lance said, fighting down his nerves in an attempt to concentrate. Keith was right, of course. Alien though they might be, most organic life-forms had a fair amount of water in their physical makeup, and he could find water wherever it hid. In his mind's eye, the basement level sprang into three-dimensional being as gauzy blue screens of moisture as fine as sheer silk, with great splashes and blobs of wetness that he really didn't want to contemplate too closely scattered here and there around the floor. That was dead water, still and stagnant and fast going foul, but some distance below them he could feel live water, running water, and running hot. He could taste the chemical composition of those self-contained boilers, and knew the flavors of terror, pain, and... oh, god... and one that was pure poison. Lance had never felt anything like that before, not even when he'd frozen the big Gantarash brood-queen, and it chilled him to the core. “Seven,” he said in a tense whisper. “They're all scared out of their wits, and... and I can feel the crazy one. He's really, really sick, Keith. That's Sendak-riding-a-bag-of-Golrazi-clams-into-battle crazy.”

“I kind of figured. Can you see where they are?” Keith asked.

“Yeah.”

“Lead on.”

Lance took off toward the back of the level with a renewed sense of urgency, picking their way carefully around floor obstructions that neither of them wanted to examine too closely. They had only just reached the last stairwell when they heard a frantic burst of blaster fire, followed by a horrible gurgling scream. Lance felt the sword strike as keenly as if it had struck him personally and dashed down the shaking stairs with reckless abandon. Both he and Keith smelled the metallic aroma of fresh blood that wafted thickly upon the air here, and nearly tripped over three more armored corpses that lay huddled at the bottom of the stairs. Very few of the emergency lights were working down here, and even Keith was nearly blind.

“Where are they, Lance?” Keith asked in a low voice, trying to make out anything at all and not daring to light any more fires.

“They're over there, to the right,” Lance gasped, his own heart hurting for the failing pulse that he sensed nearby. “We've got to hurry, Keith. There's someone dying down here, I can feel it! We've got to find him!”

“Concentrate on that, then,” Keith said, sniffing at the air; he smelled blood, but it was everywhere. “Home in on him like you would for one of us.”

It took Lance a moment to focus on the Lion-bond, but he was soon hurrying along with Keith close beside him. Even so, they might have missed their target if something by the wall hadn't uttered a low, gurgling moan. A soldier was slumped there beneath one of the emergency dims, clutching at a gash in his breastplate and struggling to breathe. Lance hurried to his side, pushing the man's hand away and laying his own hand over the seeping wound.

“Help me with this, Keith,” he said, feeling for the damage and finding plenty. “I can get him stabilized, I think... yeah. That creep got him right through the lung, and nicked the heart, too.”

“Make it quick,” Keith said, reaching for Lance's shoulder with one hand and tightening his grip on his bayard with the other. “That creep is still down here. If he comes back, I'm going to need you.”

The soldier shuddered, looked up blearily at them, coughed wetly, and managed a weak, _“Wh...?”_

“Shh,” Lance said, reaching for the pillar of flame that was Keith. “Don't try to talk. Don't move, either. You're going to be okay, just sit still.”

“ _P... pal... adin...?”_ the soldier forced out.

“That's right,” Lance said absently, feeling his aura lock into Keith's and begin the steady revolution of _balance._ He'd been yearning for this for some time, he realized, but didn't let it distract him from the matter at hand. Keith's fire skimmed over his own power, cleaning the deep wound in the soldier's chest of contaminants. The sword that had done this had been big and dirty, and laden with the deaths of hundreds. Lance followed Keith's fire with a wave of his own cool blue influence, sealing severed blood vessels and starting on the much trickier task of mending the damaged organs.

The soldier pulled in a shaking breath at the peculiar sensations in his chest, and at the sudden chill in the air. _“B... be...”_

“Shhh,” Lance hissed again, focusing on the torn lung, which had taken worse damage than the heart had. “Don't talk. This isn't easy.”

The soldier subsided, allowing Lance to concentrate on patching together the delicate tissues. It was tricky work—the lunatic had not only stabbed the man, but had twisted the blade when pulling it out, shredding and collapsing the lung and tearing several important arteries and veins. The heart was just as bad, for all that the hole in it was smaller, simply because each pulse put extra strain upon the wound and there was no way to hold it still without killing the patient. He'd healed a serious torso wound before, back on Omorog, but this was nothing like the wound that Fanlen had taken. That had been a blaster wound, which had at least cauterized what it had hit. A forceblade did no such thing, and the ruined veins were oozing blood at a dangerous rate. Still, Lance persisted, closing the hole in the chest wall and reinflating the lung with a grunt of effort. The man's breath whooshed in with a startled whistle, which turned into hacking coughs as he cleared the blood clots that threatened to collapse the lung again. Lance gritted his teeth, refusing to let the seal split open under the force of those painful-sounding convulsions, and took a moment to numb the nerves somewhat so that the soldier wasn't in too much pain.

“Starting to get on top of it, now,” Lance reassured his patient. “You were saying, pal?”

The Galra man coughed, gasped for breath, and grated an urgent,  _“Behind you!”_

Keith reacted instantly, hurling himself sideways into an agile somersault. Lance threw himself flat, bringing up his shield as he did so, just in time to deflect a blow that would have taken his head off. As it was, it knocked him sprawling, his senses jangling painfully at losing contact with the injured man. Looming above them in the darkness was a huge and threatening shape, yellow eyes glowing with the madness seen only in rabid dogs and serial killers. Lance could feel the poison in that person's blood, exuding itself from its skin and breath, and shimmering in the air around it like an evil mist. A long purple gleam in the air slashed down again to end Lance's life, stopped short by a streak of red. Keith was there, forcing the killer back just long enough for Lance to scramble back over to the injured man, who was moaning in terror and trying to crawl away. Lance laid his hand on the nape of the man's neck and made his muscles go slack, forcing him to stay still, then yanked his own bayard out and fired off a shot in the general direction of their attacker. The killer vanished into the shadows before Lance could fire another shot, so quickly that it might simply have dematerialized.

An ugly chuckle insinuated itself through the still air. “I was wondering when you would show up, Paladins.”

For a second, they both froze in shock; that had been a woman's voice.

“Sorry we're late,” Keith answered boldly, “we were kind of busy.”

There was a faint snort from the darkness around them, and a voice that dripped with contempt. “Helping the natives. So noble.”

“Yeah? Like what you were up to was any better,” Lance snapped. “Murdering unarmed civilians and killing everyone in sight. You were even killing your own men!”

Their unseen foe made a spitting noise. “They wanted to surrender. Weaklings. They betray their Emperor by showing such cowardice, and treason is punished by summary execution.”

“And what does that make you?” Keith asked, although he already knew the answer to that.

A lilting laugh came out of the darkness. “I am a true soldier of the Empire, of course, stopped by nothing short of victory or death. I am not dead, and therefore I will win. I will kill you, little Paladins, but you will tell me one thing before you die.”

Lance's eyes darted around, trying to catch even the smallest hint of that tall, dark shape. “What's that?”

“Where is my cousin, Paladin? Haggar wants her, and I intend to provide.”

Keith stared around in confusion. “Your cousin? Who's that?”

There was a flash of purple light from halfway across the room as a witchlight popped into existance, illuminating a tall, muscular figure. It wore no helmet, allowing them to see the face plainly. The Paladins hissed in surprise; the Galra woman was taller, more powerfully-built, and younger, but the family resemblance was very plain. “Lizenne, fool. Where is the Rogue Witch? Speak now, or I will make you suffer.”

Keith stepped back and readied himself for a real fight. “Forget it, lady. Unlike you, I don't turn on those who trust me.”

“Trust?” she murmured, casting him a look that was an eerie echo of the one Lizenne gave them whenever someone had said something particularly stupid. “Why bother with trust, when fear gets better results?”

“Well, for one thing, the cringing and cowering is hard on the rugs,” Lance quipped. “Are we done here? We've got better things to do than listen to you talk.”

The woman's eyes narrowed dangerously and all humor left her proud features, leaving only a hatred as all-consuming as a forest fire. “Very well. Show me what little tricks my traitorous cousin has taught you.”

The witchlight went out along with the remaining lights, drowning them in sudden blackness.

“Won't,” said a sepulchral voice from deep within the air duct.

Shiro gritted his teeth in frustration and frowned up at the quintet of glowing purple eyes that were all that was visible at the moment of the Bivorpial Exalted Prelate, who had wedged himself firmly up the ventilation shaft in the ceiling and was refusing to come out. Most of the Councilmembers had come out of hiding with only minimal coaxing, but a small and significant portion of them were being downright childish about it.

“It's all right, really,” Shiro called up with a mildness of tone that he wasn't really feeling. “The attack's over, and the police have taken care of most of the invaders. You really can come out now.”

The Prelate whuffled suspiciously. “Most of the invaders, you say? Where are the uncaught ones?”

“In the basement,” Shiro replied promptly, “we've already got people down there dealing with the problem. They can't hurt you all the way up here.”

There was a faint _hmph_ from the shaft. “Prove it.”

Shiro sighed and beckoned to his current search partner. “Fine. Just bring him over here, please, Granidlo.”

The Granidlo, who was fully intent on bankrupting dans bosses with a whopping overtime claim, led their pet object lesson over to where the lurking Councilmember could see him. This consisted of a captured, handcuffed, and sullen-looking Galra soldier whom they'd been forced to borrow from the police and lead around as proof of their sincerity. He was being surprisingly good about the whole thing so far, but Shiro could tell that the man was just about as fed up with whining politicians as he was. Not that Shiro blamed him all that much. Some of those people really had been chosen for their turn of phrase and ease of replacement, rather than any native intelligence.

“Here's your proof, Excellency,” the Granidlo shouted upwards. “He wouldn't be the one wearing cuffs if they'd won, now would he?”

The soldier looked up, glared at the glowing eyes, and sighed. “Yes, we lost. Yes, attacking the building was a dumb thing to do. Yes, I'm sorry, it sure as hell wasn't my idea. Now come on out of there, I've had to do three floors already.”

“This could be a trick,” the Prelate grumbled stubbornly.

The Granidlo growled. “Maybe, but it ain't ours. Over to you, guys.”

At that signal, four tiny figures zipped up into the shaft and ran chirping merrily down the dark and dusty tunnel. Shiro motioned his companions to step aside when they heard a burst of squeaking, and smiled when the Prelate realized just what was going on.

“Wait, what?” they heard the Prelate squawk. “What is... hey! Stop that! Stop that right now, that tickles! Uh... aaah! _Aaaaaagh!”_

The Prelate came scrambling out of hiding in a mad flailing of long, thin limbs and voluminous robes to fall flat on the floor in a heap. Lance had been right; it was very hard to do anything of substance when there were live mice gnawing on your inseams, and this fellow had at least six inseams. And the most complicated pair of polka-dotted boxer shorts that Shiro had ever seen. Shiro helped the Bivorpial dignitary untangle his legs to a chorus of evil mousy giggling, heroically keeping a straight face all the while.

“How undignified,” the Prelate said, trying to brush dust from his robes.

The Granidlo grunted and jerked a thumb over dans shoulder. “Should've come when we called then, eh? Get down to the courtyard, Tichit, they've set up a buffet and a press conference down there, and you'll miss the best bits if you hang around here much longer.”

“Oh!” the Prelate said eagerly, “Those little mettic-paste sandwiches, perhaps, and that pretty reporter from the Sepolga News Network?”

“Yup,” the Granidlo replied with a grotesque leer. “She's dyed her ventral chitin purple for the occasion, too. Go on, she'll want to do an exclusive.”

The Prelate thanked them and pattered happily away, leaving the group to their duty. The Galra soldier watched glumly as the mice flew down to settle on Shiro's shoulders, and asked, “That all of them?”

Shiro pulled out his detector and poked at the screen. “I think so. Is there any way up to the fourth floor from here, Granidlo?”

“Yeah, but it's been bricked up for ages,” the Granidlo said dismissively, “and what used to be the landing was filled up with old hardcopy record storage thirty years ago. Unless those soft-bottomed politicians can kick their way through a six- _drath-_ thick, floor-to-ceiling layer of dead paper and good masonry, I think we're done.”

Shiro glanced upward at the air duct, which was still hanging open. “How about those?”

The Granidlo gestured a negative. “Drop ceiling. None of those tubes go up any further, the airhandler itself is on this same floor, and your teammates have that end of things. The domes are connected, but only through the central chamber.”

Shiro nodded. “Good. Let's go and find Hunk and the others, and then check in with Pidge and the rest. We might even get to see her swinging through the rafters.”

The Granidlo shuddered. “Swinging. Great Zwang's Ghost, you people are weird. What else do you do for fun, jump out of aircraft at high altitudes? Drive high-powered vehicles off of cliffs?”

Shiro grinned and headed for the stairs. “Funny you should mention that...”

They found Hunk standing by the top of the broad staircase, staring meditatively at an impressionist painting of something or other that hung on the far wall and patting the large, caterpillar-like alien wound around his torso on one of its many shoulders. Shiro caught his breath at the sight, remembering Slav, but while this individual was of the same people, it was not the same person. Possibly a female, too, if the greenish streaks in the dusty-blue, downy coat were anything to go by. Of course, he could be completely wrong, but he didn't think so; the alien's voice was somewhat higher-pitched than Slav's had been, and it was wearing a frilly waistcoat and sniffling into a lacy handkerchief.

“Everything okay here?” Shiro asked.

“They're just scared,” Hunk said quietly. “The Galra have been bullying their people for ages, and having those guys blow through the wall like that really upset them.”

Shiro gave him a quizzical look. “'Them?'”

“Triple-phase life cycle,” Hunk explained. “They start out female, but switch over to male when they get older, and spend a few years in between as sort of neither. They'll still identify as one or another, or even both during that period, and the only pronoun that translates is 'they'. This one's still leaning female out of habit. I think that they like their ruffles too much to give them up just yet. You guys done? We saw that other guy with the robes going past just now.”

“Yes, thankfully,” Shiro said. “How about you?”

Hunk shrugged carefully and offered his passenger a fresh handkerchief. “Just one left on our end. The Dransillan Delegate completely freaked out when the attack started, and he wedged himself into a _really_ tight corner, and they're having to be really careful about getting him out again without hurting him. He's twice as tall as Modhri, but he's thinner than Allura.”

Shiro's eyebrows rose; for all the muscle she'd gained, Allura was as slender as a reed. “Will they need any help?”

“Nah, here they come,” Hunk said, indicating a small group approaching them, one of which was very tall and extraordinarily thin, and wearing a garment that looked like a set of curtain sheers. “Furry purple uncle for the win.”

Modhri was indeed leading the Dransillan gently by the hand as it paced along on impossibly attenuated legs. It was dark gray and covered with tiny scales, with a ridge of soft, hairlike feathers that ran down the length of its spine. Zaianne's detachable skirt had been draped over the alien's head, presumably to keep it from seeing anything that would set it off again. Shiro heard the soldier gasp, and turned to see the man staring in openmouthed astonishment—and fear—at Lizenne. _Of course he would,_ Shiro thought, _she's been on the Empire's Most Wanted list for years._

“We're done,” Modhri said quietly, patting the Dransillan's hand. “Fortunately, I've met with these people before. They're easily startled, but if they can't see what frightened them, they soon calm down. They also find shades of red to be very soothing, which helps.”

Zaianne smiled, running her fingers down the sleek line of her suit. “Lance has an excellent eye for color. Have you finished?”

“We have,” Shiro said. “We were just about to go and find Pidge and her group. Did you want to come along?”

Lizenne shook her head. “T'Popak here wouldn't come out of his hiding place until we'd sworn a sacred oath to see him out of the building safely. Dransillans might be fragile, but to them, such oaths are unbreakable. We'll take him down to the buffet and media feeding-frenzy in the courtyard and then come back to help with the mopping-up. Hunk, I'll take your passenger down as well, if you'd rather stay with Shiro.”

“Yeah, kinda,” Hunk said, shrugging his shoulders a few times to get the caterpillar-like alien's attention. “I'll be a little sad to miss out on the buffet, but reporters give me a rash. Hey, sweetie, will you let Aunt Lizenne here take you to dinner?”

It only took a little coaxing to get the multilegged and still-shaky Delegate to let go of Hunk's torso, but they managed the transfer without too much trouble. Hunk watched them go fondly, and then stretched out his shoulders with a grunt. “Nice people, but they're heavy,” he said half to himself.

“At least yours wasn't spouting paranoid dimensional probabilities in your ear the whole time,” Shiro said darkly. “Let's get going, Hunk. It's been a long night, and the sooner it's over, the better.”

“Yeah, well, it'll be a little while,” Hunk said, leading the way down the staircase. “Feel that? Keith and Lance aren't happy. I think there's something in the basement that's upsetting them.”

Shiro frowned and concentrated on the Lion-bond. Hunk was right—Lance was feeling a fair amount of cold horror at the moment, and Keith had that iron-hard intensity that he got whenever he sensed danger. “You're right, and we might want to go and check up on them.”

“Maybe,” Hunk allowed. “Those guys are pretty tough, and Keith'll get all mad if you butt in on a good fight. Besides, they've got a bunch of cops down there with them. They're probably okay. Oh, wow, look at her go!”

They had come back out into the vast cavern of the central chamber, not on the third floor but on the second-floor balcony to spare the Granidlo's nerves a little. From that vantage point, they could see Pidge swinging acrobatically through the shadowy heights of the dome. She wasn't alone, of course. As they watched, Erantha darted out along an impossibly thin catwalk, leaped fearlessly into the air, caught Pidge's ankles and used their combined momentum to swing both of them into a dark cranny in the attics.

The Granidlo stared upward in horrified disbelief, shuddered, and growled, “Mad. Absolutely stark raving banoony-berries. You lot don't even have vestigial wings, and you still act like gravity'll stop working if you tell it to! Don't they know that if they make one tiny little mistake up there, they'll splatter across half the floor when they hit it?”

“Sure,” Shiro grinned at him. “That's what makes it fun.”

“Sez you,” Hunk said, squinting up at the shadows. “I'm with dan on this. Hey, Pidge!” he yelled upward, “Me Tarzan, you Jane?”

The gleaming green thread of Pidge's bayard shot out to wrap around a strut overhead, and Pidge swung gracefully over and lowered herself down, the grapple's force-cable extending itself an easy ten meters or so until she was face-to-face with them. A somewhat offended face, at that. “Jane? Seriously? Heck, no, Hunk, Jane was just another damsel in distress. I'm Spider-Woman, and I do all my own ass-kicking. Besides, since when are you Tarzan?”

Hunk smirked. “Point. I'm built more like a gorilla than a gibbon, anyway. How's it going up there in monkeyland?”

“Pretty well,” Pidge allowed. “We've already cleared the fourth and fifth floors, and not all that many people went for the domes. The ones that did are pretty tricky, though. There are just two left, but one of them's holed herself up in a bolthole and has challenged Allura and Coran to a riddle contest. The other one just really likes it up there, and he's making Erantha chase him. It's okay, she likes a challenge.”

There was a sudden, turkey-like cackle from above, and something slim and pale with orange biolights spread broad gliding membranes and launched itself from the rim of the dome, sailing easily across the intervening space. Erantha pursued, leaping from buttress to buttress around the curve of the dome with unbelievable speed and precision, and tackled the gliding alien as it came in for a landing on the far side. Erantha's hoot of triumph echoed down a moment later, and Pidge grinned.

“Score,” she said. “I'll tell her to meet you guys down here. Gotta go help Allura with galactic trivia. See you in a few minutes. Going up!”

They watched as Pidge reeled herself up into the dome again and swung away into the shadows. “Mad,” said the Granidlo.

“Maybe, but she's happy,” Shiro replied, leaning comfortably on the balustrade.

It took only a few more minutes for Pidge and her team to finish up, and Coran was still arguing the finer points of poetic style in traditional riddles with an alien that resembled a cluster of furled black lace umbrellas when they came down. There was an Eye of Sauron in there too, Shiro observed, but the alien's vulture-claw hands were remarkably graceful, even dainty, as they illustrated the proper cadence as it hissed, _“Sliding over desert lands / shining snake am I / I bring life to empty sands / yet death within me lies._ Like that, man. A proper riddle must be something that one can sing.”

“Yes, but I've always preferred a limerick format, myself,” Coran said, “and there's nothing wrong with a bit of free verse, particularly when you've had a bit too much to drink. It's very hard to phrase a thought experiment or a moral quandary in rhyme, you know. Unless, of course, you're speaking in Fifth-Iteration Phaznak, a numerical tongue that was developed by the philosopher-mathemagicians of Kwal-Baplan'Pura. Very odd bunch, very exclusive. Very good poets. Not only could they split an artistic infinitive, they could quantify and prove it geometrically, too. Don't know if they're still around, though.”

“They are,” Erantha said, shifting her grip on a person who resembled a pale-pink pterosaur in a sleeveless pinstripe suit, his wings streaked with glowing orange. She'd secured those by wrapping him in her half-cape and was holding him firmly under one arm, but he didn't seem to be too upset about that. “They have quite an impressive college now, with several departments specializing in the various mathematical disciplines, plus an architectural center that is renowned in that region for its seemingly impossible structures. The main lecture hall has to be seen to be believed, and possibly not even then.”

“I'd like to see it one day,” Allura said wistfully, “but we don't often have time for sightseeing. Perhaps later, when things have calmed down a little.”

“You'll like it,” the pterosaur said in a reedy voice. “They did an atrium for our Septecentennial a few years ago, and it's still a major tourist attraction, even for people with no wings. I'll suggest a dome for the Octocentennial. That was fun! Would you give me your organization's information, my Lady? I've never met a Galra who could leap like that.”

Erantha smiled and set him down, releasing his wings. “You won't need to call us, we'll contact you,” she replied firmly. “Now go on, or you'll miss the fish-paste pasties.”

The pterosaur chirped eagerly and toddled off. His sinister-looking colleague turned her fiery eye upon the Blade and asked. “Timpli-fish pasties?”

Erantha nodded. “I could smell them from all the way up on the roof.”

The Delegate made an odd little chitter of delight and trotted toward the nearest staircase, leaving the team to catch up with each other. “All that's left is the basement now, and I'm getting the feeling that we should go and check up on Lance and Keith,” Shiro informed them. “Whatever happened down there wasn't good, and they don't like it.”

“Well, that's only to be expected,” Coran said, tugging on his mustache. “Soldiers the universe over tend not to be fed very well, and I shouldn't be at all surprised if there's been a fight or two over the leftovers. There was a fair amount of that cake left, but I couldn't carry it all.”

“I think that it may have gone further than that, Coran,” Allura said darkly as she felt the tension in the Lion-bond. “Modhri did say that one of the officers was missing, and may have fallen down there.”

Pidge snapped her fingers. “That's right! He said it was someone with a sword and serious brain issues. The last guy we ran into who was like that was--”

Her words ended in a gasp; somewhere below them, Lance was trying to heal a mortal wound and Keith's temper had spiked.

Hunk groaned. “Guys, something's really wrong down there! I'm smelling blood, a lot of blood, and I don't like it. How did that crazy guy get down there, anyway?”

Shiro glanced over the railing and down at the ruined floor below. “I think that I saw it happen.”

“Something I should know about?” the Granidlo asked.

“Maybe,” Shiro replied, trying to remember the details. “It was during the fight. One of the Galra tried attacking Soluk with a sword. He didn't like that much, so he broke the floor, and that Galra fell through. They're probably fighting him right now.”

“Her,” their captive soldier said numbly.

“What?” Erantha asked.

“Her.” The soldier shuddered; he'd been very quiet since seeing Lizenne, and spoke only reluctantly now. “Lieutenant Akazia. She's insane. Murderous. Anyone with any sense fears her. Your fellow Paladins had better be as good as they're rumored to be, or you'll need replacements for them both. She'll kill them, and then she'll come looking for you.”

They glanced at the Granidlo, who gestured grim agreement. “He ain't wrong. Last time someone tried to whip up a rebellion around here, the Governor threatened to send Akazia to investigate. All the rebels gave up and went home. Nobody wanted a repeat of the first time she was sent down to have a look-see. She set fire to an entire city block with a snap of her fingers, and the cleanup crews are still finding bones. That was about a year ago.”

“Oh, _crud,”_ Hunk said, pulling out his bayard and hurrying toward the stairs. “Thanks, guys, it's been real, gotta go, bye,”

The Granidlo stepped aside for the others to follow, and flapped dans ears dolefully. “Think they'll be able to handle her?”

The soldier shrugged. “Officially? I hope not. The Emperor wants those Lions. Unofficially... yeah. The universe will be a safer place without Akazia in it.”

The Granidlo humphed. “Got that right. It's out of our hands now, anyway. This is hero's work. Since we aren't heroes, let's go and see if there's anything left of that buffet.”

The soldier's lips twitched in a faint smile. “I knew that there was a reason why I liked you people.”

Sparks flew like stars as the madwoman smashed at Keith's defenses, balefire eyes burning in the dark. She was terrifyingly fast and strong, but so was he. So was he, who had received training from three very dangerous people, and his blood sang with excitement as he danced the warrior's dance. His mother had taught him the secret techniques of the Blade of Marmora, and he had learned them well enough to please Kolivan. Nasty had taught him the finesse of a knife-fighter, and a thousand dirty tricks, each of which might save or end a life. It was Lizenne's lessons that saved him now, for right from the beginning, she had trained him and the others to fight mages. Keith ignored his useless eyes and concentrated on his other senses. He could hear his foe, from the sound of her boots on the duracrete floor to the hissing of her breath through her teeth. He could smell her, an odd mix of ozone and blood overlaying the thicker odors of belladonna and rabid wolf. Above all, he could feel her—her strength, her movements, her magic, and the deep well of burning chaos at the very core of her being. It should have destroyed her long ago, but she had turned and sunk her fangs into it, vampire-like, and it gave her a terrible power. He would have to kill her, he knew, and make sure of that kill, or she would come back one day to destroy him.

Nonetheless, they were equals in this fight, for all that she was taller and more powerfully-built than he was—she'd unwittingly given him a clue when she'd told them who her cousin was. Lizenne and this woman had both had the same basic training, and certain key elements of their fighting styles were very similar. Indeed, as they bashed and battered at each other, Keith was starting to develop a sneaking suspicion that he was fighting a dark-universe version of his adoptive aunt. Modhri and Lizenne had told him a little of what it had been like to grow up under the thumb of the great and dreadful Matriarch Inzera Ghurap'Han, and how they had escaped at the first opportunity. This was the one who had stayed, and had enjoyed it.

She shrilled a long cry like a hunting hawk's and swung a fist at his face, her knuckles crackling purple-white with an aetheric charge that would have felled an ox. He ducked under the blow and lunged forward, jabbing her in the ribs with the butt of his bayard in a move that Nasty had taught him, and kept going; he'd tried that same move on Lizenne once, and her cousin reacted in the same way that she had. With a snap of livid purple forces that jangled unpleasantly across his nerves, she teleported away, and he was already facing her when she popped back out again. He had managed to annoy her; she was obviously not used to having an opponent—any opponent—being able to land a blow on her. It offended her pride, and yes, her arrogance, and she burned a deeper, more intense purple in his other sight as her fury rose, eyes burning like a cairn fire. Mind burning like a cairn fire. If he didn't end this soon, she would go totally insane, and berserk warriors were often unstoppable.

“Kind of need you here, Lance,” he panted, trying to keep himself between the Galra and his teammate.

“Just a little longer!” Lance hissed back, grinding his teeth with the effort of keeping the wounded soldier's own frantically-beating heart from hurting itself any worse; his desperate attempt to crawl away had torn things open again, and the man was literally dying of fear.

“Make it fast!” Keith snapped back, blocking a slash that would have cut him in two if he hadn't been ready for it.

His opponent had never faced a man who had lasted so long against her, and he was really starting to tick her off. She was breathing hard now, and he smelled poison on every exhalation. He knew that smell, for he had encountered it three times before, long ago, emanating from the wound that Shiro had taken from Haggar's own hand, and again a little later on, scored into the chest of his uncle. The third had been Kolanth, who had nearly died of it. The stink of malice, he knew now, which killed for the sheer dark pleasure of it and could spread like a plague.

Keith gagged briefly on that reek and shoved her away in revulsion. “Why aren't you a Druid?” he asked boldly, “you're evil enough for the job.”

She hissed like water on a hot burner. “Don't be insulting. Druids are nothing more than _puppets,”_ she spat the word as though it tasted foul. “They are as nothing without their mistress. I will not be anyone's puppet, nameless as an insect! I am Akazia of House Hap'Ghurap'Han, and I will kill anyone who even suggests that I might lower myself to becoming a tool. You will die now, Paladin; I had been considering the possibility of keeping you around as my personal slave. I will not grant you that honor now.”

“I wouldn't have taken your offer anyway,” Keith growled back, and lunged forward to launch an onslaught of his own. “You're still a tool, by the way.”

Akazia blocked and parried, leaping aside to dodge a kick that would have knocked her flat. “You dare...” she snarled furiously.

“Yeah,” Keith replied, pressing his advantage. “I do. You're a tool, Akazia. You told me that yourself. You're a true soldier of the Empire. You're a weapon, lady, a tool of oppression.”

She barked a derisive laugh and fired a bolt of incarnadine light at Keith that took down a large section of wall behind him. “And what are you? A tool of a tool, and one stolen from the Emperor at that! Even if you do not die here today, you will die tomorrow, used up and the husk cast aside. I have read the Histories; Voltron has had many Paladins.”

“I know,” he said grimly. “I've seen their armor. They did their duty and died doing it. We've taken it further—we _are_ Voltron now, and we'll stay with him even after we're gone. Kill me here, I dare you! Get anywhere near the red Lion, and it'll be me biting you in half. You, though, you're doomed. Zarkon will use you, all right, and he'll use you up, and he won't care where the pieces fall when you break. No one will. Even if you claw your way up to the rank of General, you're too crazy to keep it. You'll make a mistake, and Haggar will turn you into something that Voltron will have to cut down. We'll do it, Akazia! We'll do it, and what's left of you will orbit somebody's sun in pieces until the universe goes dark, and nobody will remember your name.”

Akazia let out a jagged shriek of wrath and hurled herself forward in a storm of blows that Keith could barely keep up with. His arms sang with pain every time her sword crashed against his bayard, and her insane rage gave her a strength and speed that was nearly supergalran. Past controlling it now, her power hissed visibly over her skin and poured down into her blade—another clue; Keith copied her example on the fly, and his bayard became a long streak of purifying flame. Every time the two blades met, there was a flash of powers canceling each other out.

The already still, blood-tainted air grew thick with smoky emanations and was difficult to breathe. Lance coughed, trying to focus on saving his patient without freezing himself solid; doing this without Keith's help was far more difficult than he liked, and paralyzing the man had been a mistake. That had caused the wounded soldier to panic, and Lance had had to render the man unconscious to keep that panic from killing him, and the ease with which he had done that was worrying him. He could turn a person off like a light, and that didn't sit well at all in his mind. It had done the trick, though, slowing the rate of breathing and the heartbeat down to something that he could manage. Unfortunately, that left him with more time to pay attention to what was going on just a little distance away.

He couldn't see them, the darkness being almost total, but he could both hear and sense what was going on. Keith was on fire in his other sight, cleansing heat pouring from him in almost palpable waves. The crazy lady was actually painful to perceive, all lightning and poison and chaos, hearted with a hard knot of void that devoured everything and left devastation in its wake. Their blades met, and there was a shocking flash of light that was the color of pain. Lance shuddered, torn between the need to keep his man alive and his need to help his teammate. He was starting to tire out, and so was Keith, while the madwoman just seemed to get stronger with every slash she aimed at him. Her hatred was like the hatred that the void had for matter, the hatred that chaos had for order, that entropy had for energy—fathomless, implacable, unstoppable, and eternal. Lance tried to focus on healing his patient up enough so that he could leave the man long enough to help stop that monster, but the aetheric storm going on only a few meters away was terribly distracting.

He felt his own fear rising now; the wounded soldier's injuries were fighting him. Something of the witch's malice had settled into the tissues despite Keith's purifying influence, and while they couldn't stop Lance's efforts entirely, they were slowing him down. It was taking all that he had to uproot that evil, and at this rate he wouldn't be of any use to Keith, even if he was able to save this one man's life. He needed help, and Keith was busy. Instead, he turned his attention to the Lion-bond--

Keith let out a cry of shock and agony just as Lance was about to draw power from his Lion. Concentration broken, Lance looked up to see Akazia's blade pierce Keith right through the chest, the crackling point bursting from his back in a long spike of black light as she ran him through. The force of that thrust carried them both forward to the support pillar where Lance was crouched, essentially nailing the red Paladin to the duracrete post. Lance screamed Keith's name, feeling the shock of impact and the searing pain of it in his own breast, and felt Keith's heart quivering around the length of lethal forces. He heard the red Lion's shriek of outrage, and the roaring of the others, and he laid hold of his own Lion's power without hesitation. Time slowed. He rose from the floor with a long, tearing howl of chagrin and anger at his own inability to aid his packmate in time to stop what had happened, his vision going blue with the tidal wave of power surging through him. He struck at the blade that had transfixed Keith, and froze the forceblade's generator so hard that it burst into powder, the blade itself vanishing into nothingness. The madwoman screamed at the sudden injury to her hand, the absolute-zero cold burning it as deeply as an ion blast, and wasn't able to dodge when Lance laid a hand almost gently on her chest.

The blue Lion's element was Water, and he now shared the deep knowledge of that element that the Lion kept at her heart. Instinctively, he knew that this sovereign force was in fact the most versatile of the five in many ways. Very nearly all forms of life depended utterly upon Water, which was in and of itself completely inorganic. It gave, and yet it took away, and one of the things that water took away most handily was energy. All forms of energy could be absorbed by the fluid qualities of Water, and given back in a transformed state. The Lion observed through Lance's eyes the damage that the madwoman had done and disapproved; she would pay for what she had done.

_How?_ Lance asked, unsure of how to proceed.

_You already know,_ the Lion answered,  _your sisters have shown you. We will do this. There is only one cure for this kind of insanity._

Together, they reached out and seized upon Akazia—not her physical self, but her Quintessence, and pulled it away from her as surely and swiftly as a riptide. It was the simplest thing in the world, and he drew in a long smooth breath as the corrupt energies were drawn into him, and then through him, using his own body as a filter to purify them, his own spirit as a vessel to contain the purified energy. Simultaneously, he heard a delicate, chiming crackle, and his breath fogged on the suddenly frigid air—his own efforts were having their usual effect, and it was with a vague, absent sort of disapproval that Lance and the Lion used a familiar technique. Lizenne had taught Lance to move the fallout from his own body to one side, that it could be put to better use elsewhere. In this case, it served to permanently rid the universe of a problem.

The Lion used the technique in tandem with another aspect of her Element: when frozen, water was a stone, and one akin in many ways to glass. Glass, when it fractured, was sharper than razors, sharper than any blade of metal, the edge going right down to the monomolecular level. Ice crystals shared that characteristic. Lance stared straight into the witch's eyes as he froze the blood within her veins, sending billions of microscopic blades slashing through cell walls and delicate tissues. Through him, the Lion shredded her organs and her brain with frozen claws, every vein and capillary sliced to ribbons within her. Locked in that distant detachment, he saw the shock on her face and watched the insane light in her eyes snuff out like a candle. He could feel the last of her soul tear loose from her body, the physical form now coated with a thick layer of frost, and heard her last scream as she vanished into the darkness of whatever awaited her on the other side.

Numb and unfeeling, he watched her body topple over backwards and hit the floor with a sound like a marble statue hitting concrete. _A simple task, done in a timely manner,_ something that was not entirely Lance thought, _and now to the real work._

Keith was dying, and the shock of it stripped the icy numbness away from Lance's heart. He caught Keith in his arms as he slid down the pillar, blood flooding from the wound in his chest. Lance held Keith close, pouring healing energy—Akazia's life-energy—into his teammate's body in a reckless rush, feeling his own sweat freezing on his skin and not caring.

“Stay with me, buddy,” he gasped in Keith's ear, “not gonna lose you. Not gonna let you go... ever.”

Keith gasped, gurgled, and coughed violently as the blood in his left lung was forcibly evicted, spewing great clots of it all over Lance's chest. Lance barely noticed, forcing the injured tissues to heal without scarring, flushing the poisons out with all of the force of a power-washer, spurring Keith's bone marrow into overdrive to replace the blood he'd lost. Lance finished the job in a furious rush, and sagged as the last of his stolen power left him, empty as a kicked-over bucket and shivering with a chill that went right down to his bones. Lance moaned, the enormity of the realization of what he'd done, and worse, how easy it had been to do it, crashing into his consciousness like a sinkhole. He began to shake uncontrollably, and burst into tears. He felt a pair of strong arms encircle his shoulders, and a comforting warmth flowed into him. Keith's aura, he thought dimly, meshing with his own, very lightly, in the eternal cycle of balance.

– _:purify/heal:--:purify/heal:--:purify/heal:--_

Lance let out a long, shuddering sigh that fogged thickly on the cold air as Keith warmed him from the inside out. There was frost on his eyelashes and his tears had frozen to his face; he couldn't feel his fingers, and a pale circle of tiny ice crystals on the floor around them glittered like orichalcum in the soft ruby light of Keith's influence. Both of them were exhausted, too exhausted to be embarrassed by their embrace. In truth, neither of them minded. Not now, not here, down in the dark and the quiet. Not when the foe had been defeated and the danger had passed. Just here, just now, down in this darkness, Keith laid his cheek against Lance's frost-coated hair and murmured, “Thanks.”

The idyll didn't last. Someone muttered a faint curse in the shadows, and a handlamp snapped on, shattering the darkness with its harsh light. A Galra soldier stumbled forward, limping on an injured leg and clutching at a seeping gash in the armor over his ribs, to have a look at his fallen superior. _“Tajvek,”_ he muttered, the word moving sluggishly through the foul air, and turned to look at the two Paladins sitting slumped together by the pillar. “You're still alive?”

Keith growled and caught up his bayard with one hand, still holding onto Lance with the other. “Yeah. Problem?”

The soldier looked back and forth between them and the frozen corpse a few times, and then shook his head. “Nope. I'm not stupid enough to be one right now. That's Akazia. We lost a whole lot of people proving scientifically that she was too crazy to die, but there she is. So... uh... mind if I surrender?”

Keith sighed and patted Lance's quivering shoulder awkwardly, then tapped the unconscious soldier next to them on the backplate. “Sure, go ahead. Your pal here is still alive, too, but he's in bad shape. Are there any more of you guys left down here?”

“I think so,” the soldier said, glanced at Akazia's body again, and shuddered. “A couple more, anyway.”

“Good. Go and find them, and then help me get these two up and out of here.” Keith coughed again, tasting his own blood and grimacing at the residual ache in his chest. He ached everywhere else, too, and was cold; Lance had iced over a fair amount of the floor, and the ambient temperature had plunged at least ten degrees. “The sooner we all get to a medic, the better.”

It took some persuasion on both their parts, but Keith managed to get Lance back onto his feet by the time the soldier came limping back with two other soldiers and a couple of wild-eyed Councilmembers trailing nervously behind them. All of them stared at the frost-covered body on the floor, one of them going so far as to try to take a pulse.

“She's dead,” Keith said bluntly, trying to keep Lance from collapsing again and making them flinch at the sharpness of his tone, “and she's not going to get better. This man here--” he pointed at the soldier on the floor, “--he'll make it if we can get him upstairs. A little help here, guys?”

The three Galra were all walking wounded, he saw, but two of them lifted their fallen comrade up without complaint and the third lifted Lance into his arms. Keith had to force himself to allow the man to do that; his instinct was to hold onto his friend at all costs; more than a friend, for Lance had become a part of him, but he had barely enough strength left to keep himself upright.

"Come on," he said, and the soldier merely nodded; it seemed that common soldiers the universe over responded best to orders spoken in a firm, authoritative voice. That seemed to extend to government officials as well, for there were only a few moans and grumbles as they made their way toward the stairs, and most of those were out of sheer relief. Keith listened with only half an ear, since most of his attention was taken up with Lance, but it seemed that they'd lived in terror of Akazia for years. Keith's head swam for a moment, and he had to shake his head to clear it. He was exhausted, and his bones ached, and he noted with some disgust that his nice new suit was a mess. Idly, he wondered whether or not bloodstains would be as difficult to get out of alien fabrics as they were out of cotton T-shirts and blue jeans. Lance, if anything, looked worse. He was pale and hollow under the eyes, and he'd gone limp in the soldier's arms. They'd both need some time in a medi-pod, all right, and—he ran a hand over his side, feeling at his ribs—at least two or three big meals. He suddenly had a huge craving for a bacon cheeseburger, rare and dripping melted cheddar and juices all over a plate of fresh french fries. He gritted his teeth and kept walking. Hunk had spoken of getting a cow, and he vowed to see to it that Hunk got one. Speaking of Hunk...

He heard a yell in the distance that was unmistakably that of the yellow Paladin, and he sounded upset. Keith didn't blame him one little bit. Those three dead soldiers were still at the bottom of the stairs over there, and Hunk was a sensitive soul. Thin and far away and very, very welcome, Shiro's voice called, “Keith? Lance?”

Keith drew in a breath to answer and wound up coughing instead, tasting blood again and feeling a sharp pang in his chest before he was able to get it under control again. “Here,” he called out hoarsely, “we're coming.”

“So are we!” Pidge declared, and there was another burst of brightness from a handlight as the green Paladin came running up. “Holy crud, Keith, what the heck happened down here? There are dead people everywhere, and... whose blood is that all over your shirt? Are you okay? Is Lance okay? Whose blood is it on _his_ shirt? Oh, wow, he's overdone it again—we all felt him go kaboom just a minute or two ago, and you don't look much better. Guys, hurry up!”

“Mostly my blood,” Keith rasped, listening to the sound of running feet coming closer and trying to stay upright under a drenching sense of relief as his pack homed in on him. “On both of us. That crazy lady? She was really crazy.”

In a sudden rush and a glittering of silver and purple-blue, Keith found himself being lifted up into Shiro's arms, and he was perfectly happy to be there.

“Not good,” he heard Hunk saying grumpily while peering at Keith's front, “Look at the hole in his suit! That's a stab wound, Shiro. Ooh, and on that poor guy, too. Really not good. Come on, everybody, there's a freight elevator over there. No way are we hauling these guys up three flights of bad stairs, in a murder-basement, in the dark.”

“But, Hunk,” Keith heard Allura protest, “the power core is still down.”

“Allura, I am the Engineer,” Hunk said sternly, “and I have the Hyper Nerd with me. That power core doesn't have time to be dead.”

“He's got a point, Allura,” Shiro told her. “Erantha, where are you going?”

“To confirm the kill,” Erantha's sharp voice echoed from some distance away, “and to make sure of it. The local cadre of the Blade has been trying to get rid of that woman for years. Go on, I'll join you in a few minutes.”

“We'll wait for you,” Allura replied, “it'll take us a minute or two to get the elevator running, anyway.”

Keith wanted to tell them that they wouldn't have to worry, that Akazia really was down for good, but he was too tired to get the words out. That was all right. He was safe now, and could hear Shiro's strong heartbeat under his ear. They'd won, and that was all he needed right now. He was perfectly content to let his mind wander a little while Hunk and Pidge cussed at the elevator, and barely blinked at the swirl of dark-blue shadow that was Erantha returning.

“Well?” he heard someone ask, wondering who that was for a moment before remembering the soldier who had surrendered to him. “Did the ice-man do the job?”

Erantha grunted in distaste. “Very much so. Not only was she frozen solid, but in such a way that will essentially disintegrate the corpse when it thaws out. A master geneticist couldn't get anything of use out of that mess, trust me, and I've added a little something that will speed up the process. I'll have to ask Lance about that particular spell when he wakes up.”

Lance moaned wretchedly.

“Later,” Shiro told her in a firm tone. “Hunk?”

There was a rising hum and an exclamation of triumph from Pidge, and Keith saw the soft glow of the power coming back on through his eyelids.

“Got it, Chief, and we've straightened the elevator out a little, too,” Hunk said smugly. “Somebody's been skimping on the maintenance down here. Going up!”

There was a comfortable jostling as everyone crowded in, and the rush of warm, fresh air when the doors opened again was like the breath of life. Keith breathed deeply of it and felt a little better. He didn't bother to open his eyes again, though, and congratulated himself on that wise decision a moment later; the sight of anxious Drinths did not thrill him, and he was too tired to deal with the Speaker. That worthy seemed to have appeared in a clatter of hooves to bluster at them, and thankfully, Shiro wasn't having any of it.

“Not now, your Excellency,” Shiro said in that special firm tone that was more like a verbal brick wall than anything else, the one that most people found it impossible to argue with. “We've got wounded with us, and we need to get them to a medic, and fast. Yes, these are the only survivors. No, the killer did not escape. Yes, she's dead. No, we're not going to clean up that mess, too. Now, if you'll excuse us--”

“Khaeth!”

That was his mother's voice, and Keith opened his eyes to see her approaching at speed, with Modhri and Lizenne right behind her. Shiro passed him into her arms the moment that she got close enough, and Keith wasn't going to complain. His mother was strong and warm and smelled nice, and he needed that comfort right now.

Lizenne pushed past her to check on Lance, and Keith had the interesting experience of seeing their rescuees cringe and try to hide behind Hunk. Lizenne really did look a lot like her evil cousin.

“What happened?” she demanded sharply, “we felt an aetheric surge coming from the sublevels... oh, stop that, I'm not going to eat you. Hold still.”

The soldier holding Lance definitely looked like he didn't want to be there, poor guy. Keith sighed and laid his head on his mother's shoulder, reflecting that he didn't really want to be here, either.

“Exhausted and half-frozen,” she muttered angrily. “Almost frostbitten in spots. We'll need to get him back to the Castle as soon as possible. What happened down there, soldier? Don't tell me that you were too afraid to watch. Report.”

Being a kindly soul, Modhri took Lance from the man so that he could salute properly, which he did. “Couldn't see nothing, m'Lady, he admitted. “Lights had gone out. There was a big fight, though, swords and magic both, and when it was over, the Lieutenant was froze solid and these two--”

He was abruptly interrupted by one of the rescued Delegates, whose vestigial gill-slits were still yellowish with residual existential despair. “Had done considerable damage to the foundations of an historical and culturally valuable building! The expense of repairs! The necessity of a full renovation! The disgrace and distress of its occupants! The lawsuits shall fall like the blowing sands of the dry season upon our heads, withering and scorching the fins!”

The other rescued Delegate, who looked more like an argyle-patterned bear than anything else, glowered at them out of dark and accusing eyes, but saved his best glare for his semiaquatic colleague. “To raze and rebuild,” he growled in a voice like burnt chocolate, “to argue for months over the new design. To be stuck in that cramped little opera building while the wrangling drags on and on, and the Granidlo wears out three mallets in succession. To have _missed dinner._ A travesty!”

“That's right!” the Speaker barked, his ears flapping aggressively. “The First Responders Corps only brought the standard spread, and they had completely underestimated the severity of the situation, seeing as we had some genuine space heroes prancing around in here! You were supposed to keep any damage to a minimum, you know! The Councilmembers devoured the buffet in the courtyard before I could get any, since I had to be in here the whole time to ensure some kind of order, no thanks to you! Begone, you untidy lot, out! Out, I say, and never darken our doorsteps again, and take that overenthusiastic assassin with you!” he waggled an accusing finger at Erantha, who lifted a warning eyebrow at him, but he ignored that and continued in a more normal tone of voice. “Incidentally, I've just gotten a tip from my informant in the Governor's office—someone told him that you were here, and he's just sent the word to one of our neighbors. The Becarba Garrison is sending a few warships to investigate. Plus, some of the Governor's own covert operatives might be out and about tonight, too. Sorry, ma'am, but your residence has spontaneously caught fire for some reason.”

Erantha rolled her eyes heavenward and vented a disgusted sigh. “That's why I specified the top-floor apartment. Less of a danger to the other tenants. Damn. Before you ask, yes, I had informed my landlord of the risks, and the Order has been careful to pay the hazard insurance premiums right on time. Run Protocol B for us, will you?”

The Speaker gestured reassuringly. “Naturally. It's part of the contract, after all. Safe trip, but make it a quick one.”

Shiro nodded. “Thank you. I'd rather not have to clutter up your orbits with a space battle, your Excellency. Let's go, people. Where are Coran and the others?”

“In the courtyard,” the Speaker said sourly. “That mustached menace, those big spiky monsters, and those little bitey monsters are a big part of the reason that the buffet's run empty. Don't think that we'll let you live that one down, either.”

Allura giggled. “Of course not. It's all our fault for consorting with opportunistic predators, isn't it? Goodbye, your Excellency. Convey my sarcasm to the Granidlo, please. Tell dan that I will properly dread that mallet of dans, should we ever have to intrude upon your hospitality again.”

The Speaker gave her an appreciative smile. “Of course, Miss. Nice doing business with you all. There'll be a bus waiting out front to take you all back to the Shipyard, as per the agreement. See you all later.”

“Cheers,” Hunk said, and headed for the front door with the others trailing behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's always that one relative that no one wants to invite to Thanksgiving dinner, amirite? They frighten the other guests, drive a sword through the turkey, and hex the pie. No fun at all.


	19. Aftershocks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lateness of this post, things are a little on the crazy side right now. Nothing I can't handle, though! Everything's fine!!!  
> ...  
> (Siri, how do I sell bad customers' souls to the devil?)
> 
> Enjoy the chapter!!!

Chapter 19: Aftershocks

Keith woke some time later, fragmented memories of sharing a bus with two dragons who smelled like fish tacos flickering through his mind. Someone had stuck him in one of the medi-pods, and as always, the machine had left him feeling chilled. Shiro was waiting for him on the outside with a blanket, thankfully, although he noticed that Lance was still cooking along in his own pod.

“He ran himself right into the ground,” Shiro said, following his gaze. “and you were out for two and a half days. He'll be out of there in another hour or so. Come on, Hunk made up a big pot of almost-chicken noodle soup, and everyone's going to want to hear your war stories.”

Keith puffed a wry laugh and pulled the blanket around his shoulders. “I'll bet. Did we get away in time, and what happened to that injured soldier?”

“We ducked down the wormhole just as those warships warped in,” Shiro replied with a smile. “Coran says that the entire Council will probably spam those guys' comm systems with complaints and demands for days. They aren't so much a government as an argument, really, and they like to spread it around. As for the wounded man, I'm told that one of Erantha's colleagues works with the medical corps, and she picked up where Lance left off. He'll be fine.”

“Cool,” Keith said, thinking long thoughts about soup. His belly had woken up, and it was reminding him that he'd blown an amazing amount of energy not so long ago, and that he'd better replace it soon. “Is Erantha still with us? I remember someone saying something about her house being on fire.”

Shiro nodded, patting him on the shoulder and motioning him toward the door. “She told us that it's a standard precaution—she booby-trapped her own apartment to blow if someone broke in. A little extreme, maybe, but hey,” he shrugged, “Blades. She'll stay with us for a while, probably until we meet up with the Fleet again, or if we get close enough to one of Blade's bases. I don't mind. She's fun to spar with.”

Keith smirked and shot him a sly glance. “We saw. You sure looked like you were enjoying yourself.”

Shiro nudged him with an elbow. “She doesn't hold back, and she's very different from Lizenne and your mother in a lot of ways. Hunk's trying to soften her up, though. He's been tempting her with cookies.”

Keith glanced quizzically up at Shiro. “Has it been working?”

“Sort of,” Shiro replied, steering Keith into the lift and pushing the button for the kitchen level. “He's been leaving them in odd corners, two or three per stash and wrapped up in napkins, so that she can sort of hunt them out. The only problem with that is that Pidge has been going after all of the peanut-butter ones, and Tilla and the mice have gotten in on the game, too. There have been three fights already. Nothing serious, but none of them can resist a challenge.”

Keith puffed a brief laugh. “Shiro, they do that in zoos back home. You know, leaving bits of meat scattered around the enclosures for the wolves and leopards to sniff out? They call it 'enrichment'.”

Shiro grinned. “It works for Paladins and Galra, too. We've been lying low while you and Lance recovered, and they haven't been bored since Hunk started.”

Keith thought for a moment on the possible chaos that boredom could inspire from four space mice, at least one dragon, a professional space ninja, and Pidge, and shuddered as the lift doors opened. “More power to him. We'd better.... oh, god, that soup smells good.”

It certainly did. Even though there was not one single Earth-born ingredient in that pot of soup, Hunk had found enough equivalent vegetables, protiens, and pastas and had combined them with his own native talent to produce something just as wonderfully aromatic as the original. It tasted as good as it smelled, too, and Keith wasted no time in getting nose-deep in a big bowl of the stuff. Hunk, who was something of an expert on big appetites, had another bowl ready for him when he'd drained the first, and a plate of fresh dumplings to fill in the corners. It took some time, but eventually, Keith let out a belch and sagged down onto the table in that happy warm state of repletion that precedes a proper food coma. Someone rubbed his back and asked, “Feeling better?”

Keith looked up to see Allura smiling down at him, and he pushed himself back upright with a smile of his own. “Yeah. Not dying can really take it out of you, sometimes.”

“We noticed the damage to your party clothes,” Allura said, drawing one slim finger over the spot where Akazia's sword had pierced his chest. “That must have been quite a battle. Will you want to wait until Lance is out of the medi-pod before you tell that tale?”

Keith burped again, and nodded. “I only saw half of it. Lance got the other half, and it really upset him. Hunk, I hope that you've got more of that soup, he's going to need it.”

Hunk tapped a big stockpot with his ladle. “Way ahead of you, Keith, I've only been stress-cooking since we got back to the Castle. Lizenne made sure that I had enough fresh almost-chicken for the Red Army. I'd offer you some cookies, but there's been a lot of competition for those lately. Erantha really likes the jam-filled ones, but so do Tilla and the mice, and it's still not a good idea to get between Pidge and mettic paste. I'll make a few more batches later. Now go up to the bridge and hug your mom, all right? She was really worried about you.”

“I can do that,” Keith said, standing up.

The trip back to the lift was not without incident, however. Halfway there, he espied Tilla trotting toward him, a napkin-wrapped packet held delicately in her huge jaws. She had just come to an intersection when a slim stiletto hissed out of one side passage, nipping the packet from between Tilla's teeth and nailing it to the opposite wall. Tilla squawked in protest and jerked back instinctively as Erantha zipped out right under her nose to claim the prize, but she, too was disappointed when a wall panel popped open above the packet and Pidge popped her head out, grinning evilly, to grab the cookies before the Blade could. Pidge disappeared back into the wall, slamming the panel closed before Erantha could reach it, but she didn't get far. Keith looked up at the ceiling above his head, for there was a sudden burst of startled yelps, ferocious squeaks, and thumping around up there. From the sound of it, all four mice had ambushed her. A ventilation plate dropped open, and the coveted packet fell through it, right into Keith's hand. Since it seemed to be the thing to do, he unwrapped it, revealing three jam-filled cookies.

“Mmm,” he said, crunching one and carrying on toward the lifts. “Trimblat. Thanks, guys.”

Nonplussed, the disappointed ladies watched him go before turning to glare at Shiro and Allura, who had been following him. “Not one word,” Erantha said in a deadly voice.

Allura and Shiro merely smiled and continued toward the lifts.

Lance drifted through an endless darkness, blue-black shadows shifting around him. The only sounds were his own panting breath and the delicate, chiming crackle of ice crystals forming. He could see them, each tiny frozen gem like a knife blade, billions of them; they clustered thickly over every surface like white velvet, with a flicker of blue living in every diamond-clear facet. The distant walls flickered with icy fur, as did the floor and ceiling, as did the bodies scattered here and there over the ice-crusted duracrete. He smelled blood, felt the heat of it in the frigid air, and the cold, slow reek of death. All around him the shadows raged silently, describing the movements of the oldest game. Predator stalked prey, and prey eluded predator. Neither of them touched upon him, for he was alone here; the shadows were a memory only. They had to be a memory, and not one of his—he hadn't seen any of these people die.

A crackle of flame flashed in the distance, scarlet-gold and smelling of fury and spices, and he heard the bell-like tones of two blades clashing in anger. Light flashed painfully every time the blades met, but did not illuminate the darkness. A deeper patch of shadow, limned in jagged lines of chaotic purple, was attempting to snuff out that fire.

No.

Not just to snuff it out.

To make it so that it had never been, nor could ever be.

Lance broke into a run, trying to reach the combatants in time, but his desperate rush to render aid was futile. His feet weren't touching the floor and the air had thickened to the consistency of molasses; despite his best efforts, he knew that he wouldn't be able to make it in time. Even so, he kept struggling determinedly forward, every breath of chill, dead air sitting heavily in his chest, like breathing lead. He had nearly reached the fighters when he tripped over something low and grayish, sending him tumbling to the floor in an awkward heap. He rolled, skidded awkwardly on the ice-slicked floor and fell over backward again, one hand landing on the object that had felled him. Lance let out a cry of alarm, for his hand stuck like glue to the cold metal surface, and he could feel his own life energies sluicing down his arm and into it, leaving him too weak to rise. It looked up with a weary yellow eye, and it was not an object, but a Galra soldier. Tiny ice crystals had added a bit of sparkle to his face and armor, but he was not among the dead.

_Thanks,_ the man whispered, voice echoing oddly, as if coming from a very long way away.  _Sorry about the trouble I gave you, but I was dying, and scared right down to my bones. Oh... and thank the cat for me, too._

“The cat?” Lance asked, trying to pull his hand free and failing; his skin was stuck to the man's backplate as firmly as a tongue to a flagpole in January. “What cat?”

The recumbent man breathed a faint chuckle, and a sparkling finger flicked toward Lance's own shadow, cast by the light of the battle before them. It was a deep, deep blue, and it wasn't Human.

_Only chance I'll ever get to thank you, probably,_ _and probably the only one who ever will,_ whispered the fallen soldier. 

“What do you mean?” Lance asked.

The soldier took a long hissing breath, and his voice was stronger, and more present when he spoke again, but his breath did not fog on the air. _People like the big flashy fairy-tale heroes best, the ones who go somewhere else to fight the monster. The real ones... not so much. Real ones make mistakes. Real ones don't get there in time. Real ones who can only pick up the pieces, or have to run away and leave the innocent to die along with the guilty. Real ones are expensive_ _to clean up after. Real ones are loved while the fear's still fresh, but when the smoke clears and the bodies are being counted, they make dandy targets for laying blame. You're one of those. I can tell._

Lance hauled at his trapped hand, but his palm was frozen to the ice-coated armor and the man himself seemed to be cemented to the floor. “I can get there in time!” he hissed angrily. “Let me go!”

The soldier puffed a creaking chuckle. _I'm not holding you. It was you who wouldn't let me go, remember? Not even to help your own brother. Does he really mean that little to you, that saving my life was more important?_

Lance recoiled in shock. “What are you talking about? Family is everything to me!”

_Really? Then let me go._

Lance hauled at his stuck hand, but to no avail. “I can't!”

_Why not? I'm a soldier, you idiot,_ the dying man chuckled, and his face was that of a corpse, teeth grinning in fleshless jaws and the eyesocket as empty as a fresh grave.  _An enemy soldier at that. You saved me today, but I'll be dead tomorrow, killed off by somebody luckier than I will be. That goes for you, too, by the way. All soldiers walk with one foot in the grave, and there are millions of us, just plodding along toward the end... but there are only six of you. Ask yourself that, boy. Is one grunt's life worth a Paladin's death?_

“Let go of me!” Lance snarled through gritted teeth, yanking at his arm.

_Think fast, cat's toy,_ the soldier murmured cheerfully,  _it's a split-second decision a lot of the time. Oops--_

Lance watched in horror as the roiling, black-amethyst shadow skewered the fiery one, driving it up against a frost-coated pillar. The flame cried out in agony, and then vanished, leaving a dark, wet patch on the duracrete that frosted back over in seconds, and a dusting of cold ash sifting down like snowflakes. Keith was dead, gone forever, and the loss of him hit Lance's heart like a piledriver. Tears blinded him, freezing on his lashes, and he reached uselessly toward the dusting of ash with his free hand. “No,” Lance said, horrified, the word like a shard of ice. _“No!”_

_Too late!_ The soldier laughed at him, the frost on his shoulders dancing with the force of his mirth, the vibrations cracking loose the slick of black ice that had held Lance's hand to his armor. _Too late! What'll you do now, boy? She'll erase you, too, if you don't do something fast. It's in her nature. Some people are just born to eat the light._

Lance froze in terror and indecision—he didn't know what to do! The chaotic shadow loomed over him like a giant, a supercell storm wearing a parody of the face of someone he had come to hold dear; a plaster mask, chipped and cracking, no longer able to hold the madness behind it in check.

His midnight-blue shadow, feline in aspect, flowed into him then. It stiffened his sinews and straightened his spine, moving him like a puppet to shatter the shadow's blade and lay a hand on her chest. _We will do this,_ a blue voice sang in his blood, _there is only one cure for this kind of insanity._

He had no other choice but to steal the madwoman's life force, and so he did, and once again saw the light in her eyes go out, and felt her soul burst through the barrier of the Mindscape, out and away forever. Lance was no less frozen than the frosted-over corpse that clattered to the floor before him, mind awash in horror of how easy it had been to take a life. The energy he'd stolen trickled away uselessly, leaving him drained and hollow. It was over, though, he thought numbly, breath steaming on the still air. It was all over.

Something began to laugh in the darkness. Several somethings. A lot of somethings, along with the high-pitched grating noises of hard, heavy objects being dragged over ice.

_You silly little fool,_ the frozen woman on the floor said, looking up at him with eyes that burned with black flame through their coating of ice crystals. _Do you know nothing? It's never over. You'll make that choice again and again, with the cat or without her._

_That's another part of being a soldier,_ the man on the floor told him over the rising chorus of dreadful merriment, _choosing_ _who lives and who dies. After a while, you won't even have to think about it before acting, eh? It's so much easier to let us go, whether we want to go or not. Sometimes we'll hang around to punish the tardy, you know. You and your fiery brother could've gotten down here a little sooner, hmm? Just a little sooner, maybe no more than a minute or two, and you might have been able to save them. Looks like they want to talk to you about that._

“It wasn't my fault!” Lance said, flinching away from the glowing eyes and shambling shapes dragging themselves forward out of the shadows. “Akazia killed them, not me!”

_That doesn't matter,_ Akazia's corpse said conversationally,  _I was a monster, and monsters don't have to explain themselves to anybody. Heroes, now, especially the ones who aren't heroic enough? The dead don't accept excuses. You did not come in time to save them. You wasted those precious moments at the top of the stairs, didn't you? They died because you were afraid of the dark. You failed them, little Paladin, just as you failed to help your brother, and it won't be the last time._

_Better run, boy,_ the soldier added. _Cat's already gone. Not surprising, that. Nobody ever holds the weapon responsible for the carnage. Just the guy holding it. Just the guy holding it, and that's you._

The Lion was gone, Lance realized with a sinking sense of dread. Keith was gone, the others weren't here, and even his shadow had deserted him.

_Never forget,_ Akazia whispered mockingly,  _that you are the expendable member of the arrangement. Paladins come and go, but the Lion goes on, and on, and on... you don't matter any more than we did. Run, cat's toy, and maybe she'll see you scrambling and pick you up for another game..._

Shapes rose up around them in the darkness, jaws agape and cold flame flapping from empty eyesockets. Lance fled, opening his mouth to let out a scream--

\--and fell, howling, out of the medi-pod, straight into Hunk's arms. Hunk smelled like cookie batter, quillop jam, and peanut butter, and his arms were warm and solid when they wrapped themselves around his shoulders. Shaking uncontrollably, Lance clawed at Hunk's shirt, staring around frantically for the vengeful dead and seeing only the concerned faces of his teammates. His eyes locked onto Keith, who was most definitely alive, and a dreadful mixture of guilt and relief made him go limp. He couldn't control the tears when they came, and didn't try.

“Is he all right?” Allura asked worriedly.

“Not really,” Hunk replied in a grim tone. “I haven't seen him like this in years. Gimme that blanket? Thanks.”

“We'd better get him up to the lounge,” Shiro said. “Keith, if you'll get some of that soup--”

Hunk wrapped Lance up in the blanket, then cradled him in his arms like a baby. This didn't even slow down the spate of his tears, unfortunately. “Don't bother,” Hunk said, “he's not going to be able to eat until he's gotten all of this out of his system. Something bad happened in that basement, guys, and it's really messed him up.”

“Worse than seeing a whole lot of dead people?” Pidge asked.

Lance sobbed wretchedly. Hunk nodded and headed for the door. “That'll be part of it, but yeah, something worse.”

“This has happened before,” Shiro said. It wasn't a question.

Hunk nodded. “Once, when he was about ten or eleven years old. His folks were taking care of one of their relatives—Lance's great-uncle Jose. The guy was, like, a million years old and had some big health issues, but he still had all of his marbles and totally refused to join a senior-living community. He and Lance were really close, too. Jose was one of those guys who had been everywhere and done everything, and loved to tell stories about it with all the dirty bits left in. Super cool old guy.”

“What happened?” Keith asked, sensing disaster.

Hunk sighed, stepping into the lift. “Things got busy. Lance's grandma was off visiting a friend, his dad was at work, his mom was out doing the shopping, all of his aunts and uncles were taking his cousins to zoos and museums and things, and he was getting over a cold. His older brother was still at home to look after him and Jose until his mom got back, but he snuck out to go hang out at the mall with his friends when Lance fell asleep on the couch. Jose had gotten up for some reason, and was halfway down the stairs when he suffered a stroke, and fell. It was a massive stroke, too, and by the time that Lance woke up, it was too late to save anything. Jose died right in front of him, and even though it wasn't his fault, Lance blamed himself. He kept saying that if he'd just woken up a little earlier, he could've called for help, and maybe Jose wouldn't have gone out like that. The funeral... it was super hard on him, and he moped about it for weeks.”

Allura's brows pinched in sympathy. “What should we do?”

The lift doors opened, and Hunk stepped out. “Stay close. Let him cry himself out, and then get him to talk about it. More than anything, he needs people around him right now. We should probably tell Lizenne and the others that he's awake, too. He did something kind of big down there, guys, and I kind of want to get a professional in to see if he stripped a gear or something doing it.”

“I'll call them,” Pidge volunteered.

It took a little time for the rest of the crew to get to the Castle's lounge; Coran and Zaianne had needed to find a bit of space where they wouldn't be interrupted for a while, Modhri had been running checks on the _Chimera's_ weapons systems, and Lizenne and Erantha had been doing something mysterious in the envirodeck with the dragons. Coran and Zaianne arrived first, of course, and found the team all crammed together on one couch, clustered around their distraught teammate.

“Oh, dear,” Zaianne sighed, running her fingers gently through Lance's hair. “What did he do, Khaeth?”

Keith shrugged. “I'm not sure. I'd been stabbed through the chest right about then, and that was kind of taking up all of my attention. Blue was involved, though. He sort of stood up, broke the crazy lady's sword, and then flash-froze her. After that, he made sure that I didn't die. I managed to keep him from freezing himself, but we were both pretty out of it by then.”

Coran bent over to study Lance's pale, tear-streaked face with a concerned _hmmm._ “Yeah, I've seen this before, and plenty of times. Alfor and his lads weren't quite as steeped in the aetheric side of things as you lot are, and having to deal with the occasional witch-king or similar was often very hard on them. Blaytz especially, come to think of it. He was a happy-go-lucky sort, but soft underneath, and getting a good look at a genuine heart of darkness always shook him up. When Zarkon went berserk just after the destruction of Golraz... well, if he hadn't been piloting the Lion for twenty-seven years, it would have incapacitated him. He never really recovered from that one.”

“He didn't have time,” Zaianne said darkly, sliding her hand down to rest over Lance's heart. “According to the records I've read, they forced Zarkon into a deep slumber and sent him off to Kedrek on a courier ship with Haggar, since he apparently had a distant cousin living there. They set about hiding the Lions only a day or so later. I don't believe that any of the Paladins returned from that last mission.” She frowned down at her hand. “Something's wrong here. Khaeth—”

It was at that moment that the doors hissed open again, and the dragons came through at a trot. They paused, sniffed at the air, and then surged forward, shouldering Zaianne aside so that they could give Lance a good sniffing-over.

“ _Kak!”_ Tilla said, backing off a step or two with her big blue tongue hanging out in an expression of sheer disgust. Soluk followed her example a moment later, adding an explosive hiss for good measure. “Gronk!” he protested loudly. “Gronk!”

Lance was so upset that he didn't even crack a smile at the grotesque faces that the dragons were making.

“Well, if you'd move over, I'll have a look,” Lizenne said from somewhere behind them.

“Did she leave a hex in him?” Keith asked as the dragons shuffled aside.

Lizenne stepped forward, eyes intent upon Lance, who was staring up at the dragons with unfocused, tear-reddened eyes. “Almost certainly. It's very rare to find a strong witch serving in the Military, and there are usually some fairly grim reasons behind that career choice. Where is it lodged?”

“Right across the heart,” Zaianne said, “sunk deep into the tissues, and it's already got a tendril anchored into a nerve cluster. It may be a death-curse.”

“What?” Keith asked, his voice cracking with anxiety.

Lizenne laid a hand on Lance's breast, narrowing her eyes in concentration. “A death-curse. Mage-battles to the death are rare, mostly because the winner stands a good chance of expiring of exhaustion, but partially because the loser will often use their last strength to plant particularly ugly curses in their opponent. It's a link forged by shed blood, you see, and those can be very difficult to remove, and they go deep very quickly. Lance is lucky—whoever it was that laid this one hadn't actually drawn blood on him, and... yes. Keith, you shared energy with him after the fight, didn't you?”

“Yeah,” Keith replied. “I had to. He almost froze himself again.”

Lizenne nodded. “Good. That sharing was a partial purification. If you hadn't done that, the curse might have driven him stark staring mad, or perhaps infected him with the same evil that your opponent was carrying. As it is, it almost certainly gave him a ripsnorter of a nightmare.”

“Can you get it out of him?” Allura asked.

“I can, but I'll want all of you to watch, and to help.” Lizenne waggled a stern finger at them. “It may come to pass that you'll encounter more of these, and I may not be there to help you. Keith, you especially, since you've already done half of the work for me. Focus on your bond, Paladins; a packmate has been bitten by something venomous, and the poison must be drawn out.”

The team took a deep breath and relaxed, focusing inward upon the strange forces that held them together. They saw the snarled knot of chaos that clung to Lance's spirit like a parasite almost instantly, and would have rushed to pull it out by the roots if Lizenne hadn't warned them off.

_Not like that,_ she said, bringing the dreadful writhing shape into clearer focus,  _it's embedded itself into several major organs and it's gone straight for the nerve network. You'll cause more damage than you'll mend if you try pulling it out like a weed. Allura, centralize and concentrate our combined strength._

Allura responded instantly, gathering the energy from their auras into a bright sphere of pure power.

_Good,_ Lizenne said,  _Hunk, you are a metal-master. Take a little iron from Lance's blood and form blades with mono-molecular edges. Very small, now, and don't let them get away from you. Allura, feed him power._

Hunk had to think about that a little, but he managed it.

_Good. Pidge, take those blades and follow the roots of the hex down to where they're anchored into his body. Stand ready to cut those anchors free._ Lizenne's awareness seemed to shift position, watching closely as Pidge followed her instructions, winding her influence over the hex like bindweed clambering over a larger vine, bearing the tiny, impossibly-sharp knives with her.

_Good,_ Lizenne said.  _Keith, follow her. When I tell her to cut the hex's anchors, you will need to burn away what is left behind. Very carefully, now, so you don't harm anything that doesn't deserve it._

Keith did that, wincing at the proximity of a familiar evil, and stood ready to fire.

_Well done,_ Lizenne said.  _Shiro._

_Yes?_ Shiro asked, unsure of what he could do.

Lizenne smiled.  _Give us time. Just like you did with that Robeast not so long ago. Slow this little monster so that it can't fight back. Just for a moment, since that will be all that we'll need. Allura, be ready for that—time is extremely difficult to manipulate. On my mark..._

Shiro braced himself, as did the others. As they did so, they felt an echo of a circle-session starting, that perfect meshing of powers--

_Now!_

Shiro struck, power from Allura lancing through him in a hot, sweet rush. Time slowed for just a fraction of a second, and he gasped as the others acted in synchrony. Pidge snipped the time-impeded hex away in one neat movement, and a wash of cleansing fire took care of the severed barbs. Lizenne sank her own hooks into the hex, pulling it away before it could reset its anchors, and they heard an echoing screech of fury as the hex was encapsulated and removed. Hunk dissolved the blades again, and they burst back out into the physical plane with cries of triumph.

“My goodness,” they heard Modhri say. “That is a nasty one, isn't it?”

Removing the death-curse had left the team gasping for breath, but when they looked up, they stared in amazement at their adoptive aunt. She was holding a sphere of filmy gold energies in her hands, and a ragged streak of purple-black malevolence was bouncing angrily around inside it. The dragons hissed disapprovingly, and both Zaianne and Erantha backed carefully away, eyes riveted to the thing in the sphere.

“Very much so,” Lizenne said in a tight, angry voice, holding the sphere up for a better look. “Keith, next time you do this, feel free to burn the hex away entirely. I wanted to pull this one out for study because there is something familiar about it. Did the witch tell you her name?”

Keith wiped sweat out of his eyes and shivered. “Akazia. She said that she was your cousin. Fighting her was like fighting an evil clone of you, almost. I'm sorry.”

Lizenne's expression went stony, and Modhri paled, eyes wide. Inside its prison, the hex swirled, forming a thin, contoured shape. Empty eyesockets opened, and an echo of Akazia's face snarled in insane rage at her. Lizenne snarled back, and just for a second it was hard to tell the two apart. Lizenne's hands slammed together, crushing the evil emanation with a puff of dark vapor and a thin, angry squeak.

“Don't be,” Lizenne said in a deadly voice, and she muttered a soft phrase that sent a wash of golden flames over her palms, burning away the residue. “Akazia and I loathed each other, and she terrified everyone who had any sense. Even the Matriarch walked carefully around my cousin. No one of the House will mourn her, trust me on that, and only custom will require her name to be kept on the family records. That was very well done, all of you. Lance, how are you feeling?”

Lance had stopped crying for the moment, but he looked terrible. His efforts in that sub-sub-basement had cost him dearly, and the nightmare had not helped. “Awful,” he said hoarsely. “Lizenne... guys... Keith... I did something... I did something really bad.”

Lizenne pulled a chair over and sat down. “You were up against an opponent so incurably insane that even the resources of a High House could not mend her. Extreme measures are justified in such cases. Tell us what happened, Lance. Keith hasn't told us anything yet.”

Lance gazed over at Keith for a long moment, as if reassuring himself that his teammate was real. “It went bad before we even got down to the first level. Keith had the life-sign detector, and... oh, god, guys, we saw somebody being killed on screen in real-time.”

Keith nodded. “We got down there as fast as we could, but we were too late for most of them. Akazia had gone completely nuts. There had to be something like forty or fifty dead down there—kitchen staff, government officials, their aides... and we started finding dead soldiers when we got down to the second level. We didn't find a live one until we'd gone down to the third, and he was on his way out.”

“I couldn't leave him,” Lance said in a raw whisper. “I couldn't. He was dying. She'd stabbed him through the chest, and... she'd put something in there that was killing him slowly...”

Modhri's eyes flashed in anger. “A favorite trick. She nearly killed two of my cousins with it, and she was perhaps eight years old at the time.”

Keith grimaced in distaste. “I can believe it. She wanted to turn Lizenne over to Haggar after she killed the rest of us. Um. Hey, Lizenne? What does 'Hap' mean, when it's tacked onto a family name?”

Lizenne's head jerked up at that, and she gave him a penetrating look. “It's a very old heraldic prefix, and it means something like 'mighty', or perhaps 'exalted' would be closer. It was used to denote a royal Lineage before Zarkon took over. Why do you ask?”

“Because she tacked it onto her name. Hap'Ghurap'Han.”

Lizenne went very still, and both Zaianne and Erantha recoiled in shock. Modhri buried his face in his hands and muttered, “Oh, gods.”

Pidge blinked in confusion. “I thought that you guys were related to a royal House.”

Lizenne nodded, rubbing at her eyes. “Hap'Banabuk'Vai, which is more or less extinct these days. Not many of them survived the aftermath of the Sisterhood War, and my Lineage has kept the connection very quiet since then. Either Akazia was crazier than any of us had thought, or my Matriarch is entertaining some very dangerous ambitions. Zarkon has shown a weakness of late, ladies and gentlemen, and that will have triggered some considerable speculation among the High Houses. If so much as a whiff of treason comes to the attention of the Emperor, he will not hesitate to wipe them out, along with any allies or associates they might have.”

“We will have to take Tzairona home, and soon, Lizenne,” Modhri said, looking up at her with urgency in his eyes. “I will not have my kin destroyed because that vicious old harpy is getting ideas.”

Lizenne nodded sharply. “I'll have a word with Kolivan and Yantilee. A strike on one of the Family's properties might be just the thing, if we can prod certain other players into moving in the right direction. That's an errand for later; continue, Paladins.”

Keith nodded. “We got into a fight. Just her and me, since Lance was having trouble with the injured man, and she'd killed the lights. I had to track her through her aura, and it was an ugly one. We did some magic fighting, too. Thanks for the lessons, by the way. In the end, I think I slipped or something. She got through my guard and nailed me to the support pillar where Lance was working, and then...” he shrugged and motioned to Lance to continue the narrative.

Lance heaved a shuddering sigh. He really didn't want to talk about it, but he knew that his Scary Space Aunt would have it out of him anyway. Tilla leaned down and licked his ear, and that gave him a little courage. “I screwed up. That poor guy held it together long enough to warn us that Akazia was coming, but he panicked when she started fighting with Keith. I spent too much time and energy getting him flushed out and healed up enough to help Keith. Oh, god, Keith, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry!”

He dissolved into tears again, and Hunk hugged him close. Keith laid a hand on his shoulder. “It's okay, pal, you pulled it off anyway. The Lion helped out, right?”

Lance groaned. “Yeah, but in the wrong way. Guys, I... I pulled a Haggar.”

“What?” Coran asked. “Don't tell me that she popped in for a visit.”

“No,” Lance said, glaring briefly at the Altean. “I asked Blue for help. She helped, all right. She helped me stand up and break Akazia's sword, but then we... oh, god. Blue didn't like her. Blue didn't like her at all. We reached right into her and pulled out her Quintessence. All of it. We soaked up all of it, like I was a sponge, and Blue and I... destroyed her body while it happened. With ice crystals. _We cut her to pieces from the inside out.”_

Erantha smiled, but there wasn't much humor in it. “A very thorough job, too. I'll want more details when you've calmed down a bit.”

“ _NO!”_ Lance howled, voice raw with guilt and self-loathing. “We killed her! We pulled out her whole life— _I_ pulled out her whole life and used it to heal Keith! And it was _easy._ It was so easy just to grab power from someone else—it killed her, and it was the easiest thing in the world. It was like blowing out a candle. Don't you see? I murdered her to save someone else's life!”

Erantha lifted an eyebrow at him. “Of course I see it. I'm an assassin, and I save lives every time that I take one. Living is the hard part. Death is always easy.”

“And yes, it is far too easy to steal the Quintessence from others,” Zaianne said grimly. “That's why Lizenne has spent so much time in cautioning you all against it. It is wrong to steal, and you'll probably want to have a word with your Lion about her bad behavior.”

“The Lions are weapons,” Lizenne said in a low voice, “and they will think like weapons, particularly when you are in danger. I do not hold you responsible for the death of my cousin, Lance, for she had set herself on the road to a sticky end from the moment that she was old enough to crawl. Hmm. Soluk, do we need to get any of her residue out of Keith?”

Soluk leaned over and sniffed at the back of Keith's neck, then grunted a negative. Lance bared his teeth. “No. Blue used me like a filter. Keith got the... the clean stuff.”

Lizenne nodded. “Good. I'll need to teach you how to cleanse yourself after this sort of event, Lance, just in case it happens again.”

Lance sat bolt upright, cracking the top of his head on Hunk's jaw. “What?” he squawked, barely feeling the stinging in his scalp, “wait,  _what?_ What do you mean, it'll happen again? I'm never, ever, ever going to do that ever again, not ever! End of line, end of story, not gonna!”

“Even to save a life, or to shut down a Robeast?” Lizenne asked, bringing him up short, and then shook her head. “It's a difficult problem, and you're too tired and stressed to think clearly. We have a little time. Use it to come to terms with what happened. Eat something, take a soak in the hot tub, and talk it out with the others, but reality must be faced. What is done is done, and there is no going back.”

Shiro sat back with a sigh, knowing her words to be true, and hating it. “We'll help him deal with it. Will you give us a little space?”

Lizenne stood up. “Of course. Erantha, will you want to help us finish thinning the keteccas?”

“You promised me a portion of the extract if I did,” Erantha replied. “Don't think that I've forgotten.”

Zaianne shook her head. “I'll be on the bridge. Coming, Coran?”

Coran put on a sorrowful expression. “Madame, you are cruel to remind me of my duty. Have you any idea of how much a single vial of ketecca extract cost, back in Alfor's day? Why, the perfumer's guilds alone would pay a man his own weight in platinum for a single  _porla_ of the pure stuff, and all sorts of skulduggery happened among the pharmaceutical companies when Grandfather auctioned off the amount he'd brought back from his little visits! Worth more than gems, it was!”

“Still is,” Zaianne said, catching him by one arm and tapping his hairline with a finger. “The hair-restoration industry alone is particularly eager to join in the bidding wars. Interested in making an investment, old man?”

“ _Madame!”_ Coran protested, but allowed her to drag him away.

Lizenne, Erantha, and the dragons followed, leaving Modhri gazing at Lance with eyes full of sympathy. “I need to finish the maintenance checks,” he said gently. “I'll come back later, if I'm needed.”

“Thank you,” Shiro replied politely, but the dismissal in his voice was plain; being an understanding sort, Modhri left them to it.

They sat in silence for a little time, staring into space and feeling a bit too awkward to speak. They had all been forced to confront that same terrible truth at one point or another, and had come perhaps a little too close to taking the same sort of action. They felt for him, and felt his pain through the Lion-bond, and the guilt that steeped in a slick pool in his heart. Eventually, Hunk rubbed at his sore chin and said, “Bad dream, pal?”

Lance scrubbed at his gritty eyes. “Really bad. Almost as bad as real life.”

“Hmmm.” Hunk stared thoughtfully at the ceiling for a long moment. “Wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

“Fine.” Hunk paused again, once again observing the ceiling. “Your Lion's upset, too.”

“Good.”

Hunk sighed. This was going to be one of _those_ times. “I made chicken-noodle soup.”

Lance made a faint _hmph_ that didn't sound all that encouraging.

Hunk was an expert on appetites in all situations, and heard the tiny thread of interest that had crept out despite his teammate's blue funk. “Sort of based on that recipe I used back on Jeproba,” he said conversationally, “only I found out what was giving it that funny aftertaste. Turned out to be the pamsa roots. I substituted thorps and added a little more phor bulb and sassa, and it's a lot better.”

Lance happened to love thorps, particularly when cooked with sliced phor bulbs and sassa herbs. He _hmph_ ed again, but his heart wasn't in it.

Hunk leaned back against the cushions and rubbed Lance's back meditatively. “You know what would go really well with it? I bet if we popped open one of those boxes of miffo crackers we got from Arcobi, and maybe added a little of that thackle spread, and just a sprinkle of fresh billa herb...”

Lance's stomach was a more sensible organ than his brain at times, and as the duly appointed power plant and spokesman for those portions of his body that didn't have an audible voice, it had gotten fed up with the nervous system's infatuation with its own angst. Vast amounts of resources had been spent on recent activities, and ignoring the requests for resupply in favor of a lot of emotional nonsense was simply insupportable. It promptly made the demands of the working majority known in a way that even the higher thought centers couldn't ignore, and warned of worse to come if its perfectly reasonable and rightful needs were not addressed promptly.

Everybody, even Lance, looked down in surprise at the thunderous growl that issued from somewhere aft of his navel.

Lance sighed, flicked Hunk a dirty look, and grumbled, “Fine. But only a little.”

Roughly forty-five minutes later, the team was rather impressed. Even Pidge hadn't seen elbow action like that since Matt had hit his last round of growth spurts. Lance had slumped down onto the table, belching quietly at the epicenter of a simicircle of empty dishes, splashed soup, and scattered crumbs, but his hand was still clutching the spoon in a death grip.

“Think that'll do it?” Shiro asked.

Hunk considered his childhood friend for a moment. “Almost. We'll give all that a few minutes to settle first. I've got a few mint-frosted cookies to top things off with, and then we'll lay him out in the dragon's den. He's not really good at solitude; a little is okay when things get stressy, but after a big scare, he needs people around him. Yeah. Definitely a pajama party with just us there, and maybe watching a kid's movie or something. Happy ending, no really freaky monsters, and maybe some sappy dialogue. Just the sort of thing to fall asleep in the middle of.”

Allura smiled; she did enjoy pajama parties, and it was her turn to choose the movie. She'd been introducing them to Altean cinematography over the past several weeks, and so far the reactions had been good. “I believe that I have just the thing. _The Sword of Snodgrass,_ which was one of my favorite adventure vids when I was a little girl. My favorite part was when the hero rescued the beautiful monster from the evil princess. It was very funny.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Pidge said. “I'll go and get things ready.”

Lance burped again, and the spoon clattered to the table. Hunk smiled in satisfaction and waved something small and green-coated in front of Lance's nose; Lance's hand moved so fast that it nearly blurred, nipping the cookie out of Hunk's fingers. Hunk nodded. “I'll finish up here and join you in five. He ought to be better by tomorrow, but we'll have to poke him into talking.”

Keith scowled, worried for his teammate. “Yeah. We just don't have time for a really good sulk anymore, do we?”

Shiro considered the magnitude of the tasks that still lay before them, and sighed. “No.”

Lance wasn't thinking very clearly at this point. The fear was still there, as was the guilt, the remorse, and the lingering aftershocks of his nightmare, but they had all been banished to a sort of mental penalty box in the back of his psyche for the moment. Most of his higher functions had abandoned their duties and were partying down in his belly along with everything else. What little remained in the deserted emptiness of his skull was just about able to process the awareness that minty cookies were a happy thing. So was being lifted up and allowed to go limp against a strong, fragrant shoulder (Hunk still smelled like cookie dough) and being carried away to somewhere nice. Somewhere _very_ nice, as a matter of fact, with lots of blankets and pillows and family all around him, and a video of something that was mostly bright colors and silly noises. He heard laughter, and snarky comments, and someone hit someone else with a pillow now and again. In the end, he never noticed it when he fell asleep, and didn't dream of much of anything for the rest of the night.

Unfortunately, the ugly emotions were still there and waiting for him when he woke up. Lance groaned and sat up, knees drawn up and his head resting on his arms atop them. The others were all around him, still blissfully asleep, and he envied them bitterly for that. He had to hand it to Hunk, though; while he couldn't say that he felt better, he certainly felt steadier and less inclined to panic. Hunk had always known what was best for him.

Strangely, that thought was more depressing than it was comforting right now. He had a terrible sense of being just one small part of a much greater game, of having no real choice in what he did or where he went. His actions weren't entirely his own, and he wasn't sure whether or not his nightmare had lied to him about certain important things. Was he just another expendable pawn in this game? When Shiro had vanished into the Mindscape, Allura had stepped in to take his place quickly enough. If he vanished, would Coran, or, or, or one of the Blades fill in for him as easily? More than anything else right now, Lance wanted to go home. Just to drop the whole thing—Lion, armor, bayards, magic tricks, the whole thing, and go back to being a normal teenager back home on Earth, where crazy-weird shit like stealing other people's life force happened only in comic books and movies. More than anything, he wanted his parents. He wanted his familiar home and every member of his family, even Carlos. He wanted the family dogs and the big back yard, and all of the neighbors and their kids, the ice-cream truck that came around every afternoon just when school and day camp let out... everything. Everyone. Even Mrs. Hopkinson's ever-growing flock of half-feral chickens and Timmy Martinez's psychotic hamster. He wanted rain that smelled and tasted like the rains of Earth, sweetened with petrichor, and the gush and surge of the ocean on the warm Cuban beaches. The Castle was pretty nice as castles went, but it was cold and empty and sterile, and those amenities that it did offer had come with far too high a price. Lance was tired of all of this, so very tired, and he wanted to go home.

Someone stroked his hair gently, and he smelled the faint spice-and-canine scent of a Galra. He looked up and saw Zaianne sitting at his side, simply _there_ in finest Blade fashion, her golden eyes worried. “Hi,” he said.

“Good morning,” she replied softly, running long fingers through his hair, “such as it is. You look like you're having a crisis of faith.”

Lance heaved a huge sigh and gazed moodily at his teammates, who were still all peacefully asleep. “Yeah, kinda. Look... did this sort of thing ever happen to you? I mean, did a spell ever go wrong for you, and you hurt someone?”

Zaianne gestured a negative and draped her arm around his shoulders. “Not magically, no. My family did run to potent witches, but the trait tended to skip generations. It skipped mine, and I could never progress beyond tiny little spells like banishing stains from my clothing. It was all I could do to light a candle, and my more talented sisters and girl-cousins never let me forget it. What power I had was channeled into learning the martial arts, and there, yes, I made my share of mistakes.”

Suddenly curious, Lance asked, “What was your worst?”

Zaianne snorted, and there was old defiance in her eyes. “One of my elder cousins was very much a bully, and found me to be a handy target for her malice. She was a strong witch, the strongest of her age group and very proud of it, while I was the best fighter of mine. She challenged me to a duel, despite the fact that such things were forbidden by the Matriarch. You Humans have a saying: 'Pride goeth before a fall'. I taught her the folly of hers, all right. Three broken ribs, a wrenched knee, a broken shin, a dislocated shoulder, the left arm broken in three places, numerous contusions and bruised organs, a broken jaw, a concussion, and a damaged windpipe. I nearly killed her, and she spent two weeks in a healpod because of it. Her parents were furious, as were mine, and the Matriarch as well, and I was punished, of course. None of that mattered, Lance. What mattered was that I should have felt remorse for breaking her to pieces like that, and I did not.”

Lance stared at her in horror. “You didn't? She was your cousin!”

“Yes. She was of my pack, but I had come to hate her; more than anything else, I was angry at my uncles for pulling me off of her before I could finish. I'm still not sorry, as a matter of fact, and that still worries me at times. When Thace brought me into the Blade of Marmora, I took to the training as if I had been born to it. I am a killer at heart, and have killed numerous times—coldly, cleanly, and without hesitation. While I will protect those whom I love with my last breath, I do not feel remorse for the dead I've left in my wake. I watch that part of myself always, every moment of every day, waking and sleeping, so that it does not come to control me. There have been times when that was no easy task.”

Lance shivered, but before he could otherwise react, another large warm body appeared next to him. Shiro, his forelock dangling in his eyes and his face still showing creases from where he'd been sleeping on tangled blankets. “You're not alone,” he said gently, and Lance wasn't sure if Shiro was addressing him or Zaianne. “I was in the military before the Kerberos mission, remember. Even though I was in the Air Force, I was still a recruit first. All recruits are taught how to kill. I never saw active combat, though. Not until Sam and Matt and I got hijacked. It wasn't good to find out that those combat lessons had stuck, or how quickly they became habitual.”

Lance gulped. He'd forgotten that Shiro had spent a solid year in an arena, forced to fight and kill for the pleasure of the Galra and their allies. Galra didn't go in for “first blood” fights; it was almost always to the death, or at least the disabling, and Haggar kept an eye on the ones who survived the longest...

“The only thing that kept me going at times was that I had to live long enough to find a way to escape. I had to get back home in time to warn everybody of the danger that they were in, and in order to survive, I often had to put an end to my opponents. Over and over and over again, for months. I lived, and certain people noticed that. The only good thing about it was that they never pitted me against anything less than a challenge.”

“Yeah,” Lance murmured, cold fingers walking down his spine at the thought of being forced to kill the helpless. “You were the Champion.”

Shiro made a bitter sound in his throat. “I was good at it. Always have been, really. The end result of over a thousand years of Samurai breeding, or so my grandfather used to say.” He shrugged. “It bred true, and they kept pitting me against bigger and nastier aliens as a result. I hated it, and I hated what I had to do to them, but I had to survive. There were times where I wished that I hadn't, but there was no other way. When you get right down to it, Lance, when it's your own survival on the line, the rules stop meaning anything, and you do whatever it takes. I spent a lot of time thinking about that. After... I don't know... maybe six or seven months of that, they started pitting me against some of Haggar's experiments. Things that used to be people. Those were actually easier to justify, since putting them down was more of an act of mercy than anything else. The cyborgs were the same, since they were usually totally insane. Except for Modhri.”

Lance looked up at Shiro's expression, and saw shame and regret there. “How was he different?”

Shiro rubbed at his face with his right hand, glanced down at it, and clenched the fist. “He wasn't, at first. Like a lot of them, Haggar had someone directing him by remote control, and he was in pain. I could see it, even through his rage. I'd managed to disable him, and was going for a killing strike. Just before I could, he looked at me, really _looked_ at me, right in the eyes... and forgave me for what I was about to do. I couldn't finish him, Lance. It's one thing to take out a monster or a mad animal, but he'd had even less of a choice than I did. I cried like a baby in my cell that night, knowing that he was probably going to die anyway, and that there was nothing that I could do to help him. After that, they pitted me against a Druid. It was worse than anything that I could have imagined, and... huh.”

“What?” Lance asked.

“I just remembered,” Shiro said thoughtfully, flexing the fingers of his right hand. “That's what took my arm off. I'd managed to wing the thing with the sword they'd given me, and that made it angry. It generated a blade of pure dark power, and it returned the favor.”

Lance winced. “That must have hurt. I hate those things. Um. Shiro, I've always wanted to ask this... if the arena was in the Center, then why were you on a ship near Earth when you escaped? I mean, wouldn't Haggar have wanted to keep you close to the lab?”

“I don't know,” Shiro replied. “I was kept sedated between battles after the arm was replaced. I didn't really wake up until Ulaz turned me loose.”

Zaianne heaved a long sigh. “You met a number of very rare and important criteria. The Blade suspects—we don't know this for certain, but we suspect that Haggar had originally attached herself to Zarkon for the purpose of studying the Paladins up close. Some of the data contained in the old Dyrchoram caches certainly suggest that. Only a very few people possess the right combination of traits to qualify for those cats, and the Lions can sense and react to a viable candidate at enormous distances.”

“And the Druid would have sensed that, too,” Shiro mused.

Zaianne nodded. “The Empire already knew that one of the Lions might be hidden somewhere in your home System, but they didn't know where, and you Humans were just on the cusp of being able to put up more of a fight than they would have preferred. You were bait, to put it bluntly. If the Lion were to sense you, and to send out its summons, then the Emperor's agents could detect that and follow those signals in. Ulaz had no choice but to turn you loose, for all that Kolivan dressed him down for it later. He took a terrible risk, and one that we could not have afforded if he had failed.”

“We won anyway,” a voice from the drifts of pillows growled defiantly, and Lance saw that Keith and the others were awake, and listening.

“Breaking even, certainly,” Allura added, propping herself up on a heap of cushions and fixing Lance with a very direct stare. “Lance, you are not alone. I am a Perfect Mirror, and have had to make that choice as well. Several times.”

Lance drew in a sharp breath; he'd forgotten about that. “You mean... every time--”

“Not every time,” she admitted, scooting forward to sit face-to-face with him. “The time where I traded my own energy to the Balmera, it was a gift, and one that it repaid in helping us, even though the Robeast had corrupted some of its crystals. Those times where I have had to absorb strikes from Haggar and the Druids, I thought of that energy as a sort of dark gift; one that I repaid by using it against them. It is when I take energy from things like Robeasts, or things like the forest on that little world near the Szaracan Cluster, or even when I consolidate our own power, Lance, that is where I start having reservations. I was born for the task of absorbing and redirecting power, and it can be very difficult not to take too much. With Robeasts, I can justify it in that the energy was already stolen, and that I am liberating it for the purpose of combating those who would steal more. When I drew from the forest, I was tempted to take more than it was willing to give, and might have taken it anyway if it had refused; thankfully we had something to trade that it valued. As for our own power... there are other things to worry about.”

She looked so anxious about that that Lance forgot his own troubles for a moment. “It's okay, Allura, we've never said no. You've never asked for more than we could give!”

“But I might!” she shot back, the pink centers of her eyes distending in private fear. “Your strength is not infinite, nor is mine, nor is that of any of the others! I can draw power from the Lions and give it to you, but we know how dangerous that is now, and how easily any of us can become addicted to it. What happens if we should fight a Robeast, or perhaps two or even three at once, and I take it too far?”

She reached out and caught his face in her hands, holding it close to hers. “Paladins in the past have gone mad—even _died_ for having done that, and I refuse to lose any of you!”

She sealed that declaration by pressing her lips to his, and his mind went blank with shock, a sensation that only redoubled when Shiro planted a smacking kiss on the top of his head, and the others lunged forward to grab on for a huge cluster-hug. Lance, tears streaming down his face, did his best to return the gesture.

“Well, that's encouraging,” an unwelcome voice said from the doorway.

Lizenne stood there, watching them with enigmatic golden eyes. She nodded at Lance and said, “You'll want a good breakfast before your lesson, Lance. Today, I'll be teaching you how to cleanse yourself of aetheric impurities and to better control your skills, and I have a feeling that it isn't going to be easy.”

Lance groaned miserably, upset that the close moment with the others had been ruined. “Lizenne, I really don't feel up to it right now. Can't it wait?”

She shook her head. “I'd rather not risk it. The team must be back at full strength to face whatever our enemies throw at us next, and we can't have you collapsing on us at a critical moment. Pull yourself together, Lance, this display is childish and self-indulgent, and we have far too much to do. You owe it to your team and your Lion.”

Lance panicked. All of the fears and uncertainties that he'd been struggling with exploded at once behind his eyes, and his nerves had already been in a delicate state. His mind went white with a terrible mix of terror, outrage, and defiance; all of the pain came up, the fear, the guilt, the anger, all of it in a great gushing outpouring of vile calumny, like a sewage pipe overflowing onto the street. He was vaguely aware that he had lurched to his feet and was shouting threats and wild accusations at her, and every insult that his backbrain had collected over the past three years. That ended when her palm cracked against his cheek; not hard, but enough to shock him out of his tirade.

“That's enough of that,” she snapped, drawing herself up to her not inconsiderable height and radiating authority in an almost visible fog. “You _will_ learn what I have to teach you, boy, and as soon as possible! We cannot afford a weakness now, not when Haggar has rebuilt her monster lab, and Akazia was not the only one of her kind.”

“But--” Lance bleated, his hand touching the place where she'd struck him.

“No,” she said in a voice that brooked no opposition. “Witch though she was, she was not a Druid. Believe me, the Druids are worse, if they have enough time to ready an attack on your psyche. Shiro can tell you what facing that when unprepared for it is like.”

Shiro frowned and rose to his feet, angry at being used as an example like this. Ordinarily, he put up with Lizenne's domineering behavior because there was usually a very good reason for it, but this was too much, too soon. He felt the others standing up with him, to form a defensive group around their injured member.

“Back off, Lizenne,” he said in an iron voice, making Lance blink at him in confusion. “He needs more time, and you're pushing too hard.”

Lizenne gave him a scowl that would have withered a lesser man, and shook her head. “We don't--”

“ _No,”_ he snapped. “We are not Galra.”

Lizenne's eyes shifted to Zaianne, but she found no help there. Zaianne had moved behind her adoptive nephew and had laid both hands protectively upon Lance's shoulders, and her eyes were full of defiance. The witch looked surprised for a moment, and then smiled wryly, taking a step back and giving Shiro a respectful little nod. “So be it,  _Hekabar'Harcho._ Do tell me when he is ready to learn.”

With that, she left the room. Zaianne let out an explosive breath and wrapped her arms around Lance, holding him close. “That could have gone better,” she murmured. “Ah, well, she needed reminding. Congratulations, Shiro.”

Puzzled, Shiro glanced back at her. “What do you mean?”

“And what's _Hekabar'Harcho?”_ Keith asked.

Zaianne smiled and patted Shiro's cheek fondly. “It means 'Master of the Hunt'. In the ancient days, that was a very important rank within the Pack, and it was usually awarded to the very best and most capable of the younger men. It made him third in command of the entire Lineage, after the Matriarch and her man, and he was responsible for looking after the discipline, the training, and the physical and mental welfare of all of the hunting-age males. All else paled before his most important duty, however, which was to keep an eye on what the Matriarch was up to, and to bring her up short if she needed it. Her own mate couldn't do that, but her Hekabar'Harcho could. He was the voice of reason, and often a dissenting one, and he kept the House's Matriarch from getting above herself. Don't worry too much about it, Shiro; you've been doing those duties all along.”

“Yeah, but what was all the rest of it about?” Pidge asked. “She thinks we're Galra?”

Zaianne snorted. “My sister has very powerful instincts and a deep knowledge of our history. Furthermore, she spent seven Zampedran years running wild with the dragons, who have a very similar pack structure. Our own little society here resembles it as well, and our two peoples are related. She cannot help but fall into that way of thinking, and it gets the better of her sometimes. She sees herself as Matriarch, and none of us have tried to correct her.”

“Until now,” Keith mused. “Huh. Sometimes I forget, too, especially after we've been hunting.”

Allura puffed a wry breath. “You're a special case. Will she need reminding again, do you think?”

“Oh, yes,” Zaianne chuckled, “but she will also remember that the Hekabar'Harcho stands ready to swat her across the nose if he has to. It's very important to maintain that balance of power within the Pack, and I am ridiculously proud that one of my sons has that authority.”

Shiro smiled. “I'm just glad that she's willing to recognize it. Are you all right, Lance?”

Lance had been standing very still in the circle of Zaianne's arms, a little wild-eyed and vibrating like a harp string. “Did I really call her a grape-colored, mop-headed, evil-eyed, iron-bitch witch?” he moaned.

Hunk snickered. “In Spanish. It was pretty good.”

Zaianne chuckled and hugged him closer. “Among other things, yes. It's all right, she deserved it. Galra are predators, young man, and we recover from shocks like this a good deal faster than you Humans do. Khaeth's father used to disapprove of my attitude frequently, and wasn't afraid to tell me so! She'll take some time to think about this little incident, and she'll apologize to you for it later. I don't doubt that Modhri will scold her a bit as well. Your aunt loves you, Lance, and one of the ways that a dominant female shows that is by making you as tough and self-sufficient as possible. It's the only way that she can keep you safe when she's not right there to shield you.”

Lance winced; he'd had this sort of tantrum before several times and several years ago, and could practically feel his mother's  _chancla_ smacking across his rump even now. “What am I gonna do, guys?”

Hunk poked him gently in the ribs. “Well, first you're going to have breakfast. You kind of destroyed the soup and miffo crackers last night, so I'll run up a batch of lelosha wraps and a pile of eggs and umsihl hash, and maybe some paslen. Pure comfort food. Then you're going to have a talk with Blue.”

“Blue?” Lance flinched at that, too. “Guys, she was part of what went wrong. I think I found out some things... I really don't want to even think about them right now.”

“I know,” Hunk said, and something in his voice made Lance straighten up and pay attention. “I had to have that sort of talk with Yellow a while ago. I'm a Technomage, pal. After we squeezed that Bucket of Shiro out of the Robeast on Teravan, I got to thinking about what else I could do with that kind of magic, and Yellow had some suggestions. We could, working together, crunch up whole ships and everything in them like they were soda cans. Just like that, Lance. It would be a fast way to win a battle, but hundreds, maybe thousands of people would die. Not just the soldiers, either. Those big warships usually carry a whole lot of prisoners, remember? I'm not going to wipe them out just because it would make things easier for me, and I made sure that Yellow knows it.”

Pidge nodded gravely. “Shechethra and I can do the same sort of thing, only worse. We could kill a ship and everyone in it from the inside out, just by messing with the artificial gravity and the environmental control systems. I could set the drones and Sentries on a murder-rampage, and make the ship itself spread those commands to other ships. I can make ships live, and then kill them, just like that! I've already done things like that, remember? I haven't gone the whole way, and I won't, and I've made my Lion promise never to do that herself. Go talk to Blue, Lance. You need to hammer this out between yourselves.”

Keith shrugged and added, “Red and I have an understanding, too. We could melt those guys, or just burn up everything inside them. It's not something that we're going to do. I could have flash-fried Akazia, if I'd thought about it. I'm not that kind of person.”

Lance nodded dejectedly, and cast a suspicious look at Allura and Shiro. “Have you two had grown-up talks with Black, too?”

Shiro and Allura glanced at each other, and smiled. “Black has both of us keeping an eye on him, and he knows better than to cross us,” Allura said.

“He picks his moments,” Shiro said calmly, “and has fairly good judgment. You can ask Coran if any of our predecessors had to deal with this sort of thing, and I'll bet that he'll have a whole pile of stories to tell you. For now, though, breakfast, and then we'll get on with things.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sung to a particular tune from a particular episode of Monty Python* Langst Langst Langst Langst Langst Langst Langsty LAAAANGST!!!


	20. A Declaration of Intent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *flings chapter and runs away screaming*

Chapter 20: A Declaration of Intent

Shiro's advice was good, but that didn't make Lance any more willing to actually follow it. At the moment, he was wandering around on the engineering deck, trying to nerve himself up for a confrontation with a living war machine that was more than ten millennia his senior while the dead made snide comments at him in the back of his mind. Akazia had done something more than just lay a curse in him, and he did not like the idea of having a haunted head. A tinkle of something small and metallic falling to the floor in one of the workrooms, followed by a muttered epithet, drew his attention; peering in through the doorway, he saw Modhri fishing a small part out from under the workbench. On the bench itself, an odd mechanism lay half-dismantled.

Glad of the distraction from his own thoughts, Lance stepped curiously through the door and asked, “What are you doing?”

Modhri glanced up, and came back out from under the bench with something knobbly in one hand. “Servicing the air filter from the drying tube in the Queen's Suite,” his hand indicated a pile of what looked to be dull-purple lumps of felt. “Alteans aren't anything like as furry as we are, and the poor thing was close to choking to death on its own lint trap.”

One of Lance's childhood duties back home had been cleaning out the lint traps in the laundry room, and he remembered the clumps of felted dog hair that he had pulled out of those with a smile. “You really like the hot tub, huh?” he asked.

“It's a great luxury,” Modhri replied, putting the disassembled machine back together with a skill and efficiency that Lance couldn't help but admire. “The _Chimera_ is a good ship and is very comfortable in many ways, but it does not have a hot tub. All of the best features were reserved for the envirodeck and the gene-lab, and having benefited from both, I cannot complain. Perhaps later, I might be able to coax Lizenne into redesigning things in our little grassland so that we can have a hot spring in there.”

Lance sobered. “Yeah... um... where is she right now, anyway?”

“In the envirodeck,” Modhri said, tightening a nut with careful precision. “She said that she had some things to think about, and she prefers to do her thinking under an open sky. That way, if her thoughts make her angry, she can chase something around the deck until she feels better.”

Lance dropped into a nearby chair with a thud. “You guys really like to hunt, don't you?”

Modhri smiled and fit the housing on over the air filter and began to tighten the screws that held it in place. “We're predators. Hunting speaks to something deep within our blood, bones, and souls. To hunt is to prove one's self; it is a way of testing strength, endurance, and intelligence, and to catch the prey is to prove that we are worthy of the great gift that is life. We may eat, and live. We feed our children, who will grow strong and well, and who will learn from their parents and likewise feed their own children in time. Good judgment plays a part, of course. One should be careful in choosing what and when to hunt—it is not done to pursue prey that is becoming too scarce, nor may one take the pregnant or nursing females, nor the young. A creature that is sick with something contagious must be culled for the sake of preserving the health of the herd, and only a fool hunts a healthy beast for anything other than food; all parts of the animal must be used as well. A person who kills what he will not eat, or kills simply for the sake of killing is a madman, and is henceforth expelled from the Pack.” Modhri sat back and turned in his chair to face Lance. “At least, that's the way it was in the ancient days.”

Lance humphed. “Didn't the girls hunt, too?”

Modhri snorted. “Of course they did. Who do you think minded the herds, watched for waning populations, or ones in danger of overbreeding? The women used their powers to warn us of danger and to find us the best targets, and the unmated women would often run with the hunters. It was certainly an excellent way to judge the performance of those proud young men, with an eye to future romance. A warrior-woman was just as good as a witch-woman to a hopeful hunter, and it was a lucky fellow who could catch the eye of a woman who was both.”

Modhri's expression had turned smug; after all, he was that lucky fellow. Lance, on the other hand, had seen the dark side of that, and far too recently. “What about ones like Akazia?”

Modhri shuddered. “They were killed, and for good reason. A mad warrior-witch could easily become a horror that could destroy whole packs and the herds that they followed. Not a tradition that has made it through to modern times, I'm afraid. Is that what is worrying you, Lance?”

Lance nodded jerkily. “Yeah. She did something to me, Modhri. While I was in the medi-pod, I had this horrible dream, only it was so real that I could smell, and taste, and even feel what was going on. It's still going on in my head, sort of.”

Modhri's face crumpled up into an expression of deep sympathy and concern, and he scooted his chair over so that Lance could lean on him. “You are not the only one. I had to grow up in the same house as that woman, and I and my family were her preferred prey. One of her favorite tricks was to spread horrible nightmares around, because they left no physical marks. They do linger, don't they? Describe yours to me. I may be able to help.”

“Had a couple yourself, huh?” Lance asked, resting his head on the broad chest and feeling better for it.

“Three, and they nearly frightened me to death.” Modhri sighed and wrapped a long arm around his shoulders. “Almost four, but Lizenne got there first. Akazia couldn't plant a nightmare without touching her victim, you see, and my wondrous wife caught her sneaking out of her room in the middle of the night. I woke up to hear someone else screaming for once, and saw Lizenne tearing strips out of Akazia just outside my doorway. It took three adults to pull them apart, and they've hated each other ever since. It's just as well that you and Keith put her down, Lance. If she'd managed to come face-to-face with Lizenne, they might have reduced the entire building to a smoking hole.”

“I still wish that I hadn't, or not like that,” Lance moaned. “She won't let up about it!”

Modhri patted his shoulder. “Tell me.”

“Well, it started down in that basement...” Lance began reluctantly, but it got easier as he went along, and it was in fact a relief to pour the whole ghastly mess into a sympathetic ear. He felt wrung out at the end of it, but better. “...and then I ran away, and woke up screaming,” he finished. “Pretty bad, huh?”

Modhri nodded slowly, his expression pained. “Yes, I'd say that this one was a prizewinner, although not the worst that I've had to deal with. She scared one of my elder brothers into a nervous breakdown once, and he spent three days under sedation before the medics were able to excise the problem. Akazia was possibly the best liar that I have ever encountered.”

Lance blinked at him in confusion. “Liar? Everything she said was true!”

“Yes, but she told the truth in such a way as to force it to become false,” Modhri said grimly. “A bad liar will spout untruths so blatant and artless that a blind thwellit could see right through them, but a skilled liar endeavors to be almost totally honest. The trick is not to tell a lie, but to twist the truth, to prevaricate until green becomes red; or worse, that green becomes a whole dark rainbow of terrible possibilities. What parts of that dream upset you the most?”

Lance shuddered. “When she killed Keith. When Blue used me to kill her. Being stuck to that soldier, and listening to him talk... Oh god, that soldier! I saved him, Modhri, but I couldn't do a full healing, and he was sort of both dead and alive at the same time, and...”

Modhri's finger tapped him gently on the nose. “Erantha is a kinder person at heart than she lets on, and directed a particularly talented colleague of hers to see to him. He lives, Lance. It'll be some time before he recovers fully, but he lives, and you did save him. Erantha's talented friend tells us that an odd thing happened while she was working on him.”

Lance had gone limp with relief to know that he hadn't failed in that aim at least, but he looked up curiously at Modhri's words. “What was that?”

“His heart stopped.” Modhri held up a hand to forestall Lance's protests. “Only for a very short time, perhaps thirty seconds or so, but for that thirty seconds before they got it going again, he was dead. Just long enough, perhaps, for that poor soul to thank you for your efforts.”

“Yeah, but he turned bad on me,” Lance said, very puzzled.

“Think,” Modhri admonished, “exactly when did he turn bad on you?”

Lance thought hard, and then his eyes went very wide. “Sort of mid-sentence... about thirty seconds into the dream! They got him started again, right, and Akazia stole his voice and shape? She _used_ him! He was dying, she'd nearly killed him, and she used him! That's disgusting!”

Modhri gave him an approving nod. “Well spotted. His name is Methrap Parak'Orn, Lance, and he would not have survived if you had not gotten most of Akazia's evil influence out of him. He knows it, as a matter of fact, and woke up shouting that she lied, that that wasn't him, that she had stolen his words and his face. He'll be going home once he's stable enough, and if we ever swing by the planet of Arambart in the future, we're to visit so that he can thank you in person. Apparently, you're the only one outside of his own family who has ever thought him to be worth that kind of effort.”

“Everybody's worth it,” Lance said without thinking, then winced as he remembered the light of madness in Akazia's eyes. “With exceptions. Maybe. Really rare exceptions, all right?”

Modhri chuckled. “And that's why you will never turn to the bad; you will always try to save as much as you can—it's instinctive for you. Unfortunately, you will not always be rewarded for that. There are persons like Akazia out there, thankfully very rare ones, who are simply born evil. In the ancient days, we would have said that such a person was a cub of Tigramosh-Mum'NakNak, sired by one of the escaped fragments of that monster. She said it herself, didn't she? _Some people are just born to eat the light._ What traits do Humans associate with light, Lance?”

“Uh...” Lance said, thinking fast. “Usually good things. Truth, beauty, justice, joy, happiness, clarity, purity, holiness... Cousin Maria-Dolores could go on for hours on that subject—and would, if you let her. She taught Sunday School.”

“I will tell you right now and from personal experience that 'eating the light' was precisely what Akazia did for most of her life.” Modhri squeezed him gently. “Wherever she found something truly good, she could not resist trying to destroy it. Even in the grip of terror, you could see her, and knew what she was. She ran Keith through, but he lives because you denied her. She stabbed poor Methrap, but he lives because you denied her. She will never kill again, because you and your Lion denied her. Not in a way that you would have preferred, perhaps, but it needed to be done.”

“She tried to destroy me, too,” Lance grumped, rubbing at his head.

“Look on it as a mark of your quality.” Modhri replied. “She didn't waste her best efforts on the mediocre.”

Lance's hand dropped into his lap. “Modhri... am I really that good? I mean, Blue's had a lot of Paladins. I got Coran to show me the armor, and... and those were the ones that got all the formal training, at a real Academy and everything. Blue had the pick of the best of the best--”

Modhri held up a finger. “That is something that I cannot help you with. Your relationship with your Lion is yours alone, and that's the way it has always been. Coran and I often do the maintenance on the Castle together, and it takes very little encouragement to get him to talk about the previous teams; every Paladin's bond with their Lions was different, and varied in strength and depth. If you want to know how much the Lion values you, ask her.”

“Yeah, the others told me to do that, too.” Lance glanced gloomily in the general direction of the blue Lion's hangar. “I'm not sure that I want to.”

His adoptive uncle heaved himself to his feet and pulled Lance up with him. “Heroism is often about doing things that you would rather avoid doing. Come along, we'll get it over with. If there is anything that I have observed about you all, it is that you and your Lions reflect each other very clearly. I wouldn't be at all surprised if she feels just as terrible about this whole mess as you do.”

It was only a short walk to the blue Lion's hangar, and it was with both relief and trepidation that Lance saw her sitting quietly with her shields down and her jaws open, ready for a pilot at any time. Modhri gave him a gentle push toward her and stepped away, leaving him to his fate.

He stood silently for several long minutes, staring up at the enormous device that had tangled his fate so inextricably around itself. Even now, feeling at his lowest, he could feel the bond between himself and the Lion. He puffed a soft breath and trudged up the gangplank that extended from the Lion's chin, and flopped down bonelessly in the pilot's seat. She didn't react, but he could feel her awareness all around him, waiting.

“We really did it this time, huh?” he asked, his voice echoing slightly in the crowded silence.

There was a faint sound of trickling water, and a feeling of shame. There was also just a flicker of defiance as well; something that needed to be done had been done, even if it had been done the wrong way. The whole purpose of Voltron was to fight evil. Evil had been fought, and defeated.

Lance shook his head slowly. “Face it, we screwed up. Yeah, she had to go, but not like that. Did any of the other Paladins ever mess up like that?”

Images flickered in the back of his mind. Over and over, he saw the faces of evil, and people wearing Paladin's armor making the same desperate choice. Some had succeeded, others hadn't, and still others had found the victory to be Pyrrhic at best. He wasn't alone in that, at least, just as his teammates had said. Water was not a tame element, Blue told him; a teaspoon of it in the wrong spot could end a life very quickly, and both large and small bodies of water claimed their due from the living every day. The water that drowned a man in one year would become the rain that saved another in the next, and so it went. The red Paladin had felt that rain, and just in time; as part of that cycle, neither he nor Blue could deny their nature.

“Maybe, but I don't have to like it,” Lance said, resting a hand on one control beam. “Look, just don't do that again, all right? Really, really don't do that unless it's super necessary. I mean it, Blue. Haggar went that way, and we know where that goes. It turned out okay this time, but we shouldn't get cocky. Even if we do it only for the best reasons, that makes it easier to do it for the wrong ones.”

There was a faint, uneasy rumble, and an ancient memory blossomed in his mind. The Lions had been very new at that time, and on their very first team of Paladins. The Lions had been so young, so eager to make the wide and wonderful universe a better place for its many peoples, and the dreadful things that some of those peoples had done to others had come as a terrible shock. Blue remembered the first red Paladin, a wild and difficult woman who had had very stringent ideas of how a defeated enemy should pay for its crimes. Even so, the Paladins were lionized as heroes, and the bad habits of such people are often tolerated, condoned, and even approved of; nobody had complained when she had pulled the Quintessence from the despotic overlord of Honarp and used it to destroy the Place of Expiation, where terrible tortures and executions had been carried out. People had started getting worried when she'd started in on whole governments, and when she'd started eyeing the “enemies of the State”...

“Oh, god, don't,” Lance said, his face creasing in someone else's pain and remembering where that sort of thing had led, time after time, back on Earth. His history classes had been full of glorious revolutions that had ended up becoming brutal dictatorships, sometimes within mere weeks or even days of their victories. “Coran told us that Red had flunked her first Paladin, but he didn't tell us why.”

Blue felt a deep and terrible sense of shame, and Lance felt it with her. The Lions had known, but they hadn't intervened in time to stop a terrible atrocity. Ever since then, Red had demanded that her pilots prove themselves to her, and for good reason. Training and bonding with a good Paladin was no small job.

“Blue,” Lance whispered, fear bitter on his tongue, “you had that dream with me. I _know_ that you did. You've had something like twenty or thirty pilots. Are we expendable? Were any of us easily replaced?”

_No,_ Blue replied almost audibly, and a fresh wave of memories flooded his awareness. A large, fancifully-constructed white building on a planet that he now knew was Altea, a fully-equipped military Academy that graded and trained a very special type of soldier. He saw thousands of hopefuls applying for entry, hundreds of thousands at times, hailing from just about every starfaring race in the known universe. Only a tiny percentage of them had qualified for the program; quite aside from the bits and pieces of formal training that Coran and Allura had tried to give him, there had been courses of grueling physical training given out by iron-hard and fearsome instructors, stringent courses in astrogation, hand-to-hand combat, piloting fighter craft, misdirection, espionage, various styles of martial arts, ethics, diplomacy, how to deal with the various anomalies that haunted odd corners of space, and so on, and so on. And all that happened before the candidates could even hope to become cadets. The final test was the Lions themselves, and the Lions would only accept a very particular set of traits, and trainees possessing all of them were very rare. Once deemed acceptable, these cadets would have to learn how to form dedicated groups, even as Lance and the others had; that, and the special training and disciplines required for piloting the Lions were enormously difficult for many of them, and fully half of the cadets washed out before their second year of training. Even at the height of operations, the Academy might only have perhaps one or two hundred cadets in any given year, and of those, only a few ever got to achieve the rank of Paladin.

Faces began to form in Lance's memory then, faces accompanied by deep feelings of love and loss. Male and female and otherwise; reptiloid, avian, insectoid, piscine, vegetable, mammaloid, marsupial, monotreme, amphiboid, and unnameable; all of them laughing, all of them lighthearted and carefree. All of them people of fluid temperament, loving life, loving action, loving the people around them—Lance looked into them and saw himself, thirty-four mirrors of his own soul. They had given their lives in service to the universe, and were gone. The blue Lion had mourned each and every one of them, and had sorrowed down the long centuries since the last blue Paladin, her beloved Blaytz, had left her deep in a cave on an unknown world. She and the other Lions had learned a terrible lesson when the black Paladin had gone mad; the next team of Paladins must be perfect, they had decided, unique, and of a kind that not even the Board of Admissions at the Academy had known to check for. The Lions had been told that this particular group had been arranged for and was coming. They were coming, but it would take a long time for the circumstances to be exactly right...

_I waited ten thousand years for you,_ the blue Lion told him, her awareness curling around him like a friendly panther,  _you are not expendable and cannot be replaced. None of you can. There is no one else._

“What about Shiro and Allura?” Lance asked, deeply comforted.

She laughed like water falling down a cliff.  _That was part of the agreement, but it took us by surprise as well. Nobody was expecting them, which is all to the better._

Lance scratched his nose thoughtfully. “Going to explain that?”

The waterfall became a gushing rapid. _Guess._

Lance sighed and flicked the control beam with an admonishing finger. “Just one more thing...”

The Lion's awareness became curious, but did not speak.

“What's your name? Your real name. Green already told Pidge hers.”

A large, ghostly cat gave him a head-bump under his chin. It felt like getting a gentle knock from a furry brick. _I am Choluurush, Paladin._

“Choluurush,” Lance repeated, hearing the sound of a wave breaking on the shore as he said it, smelling sea salt and feeling the spray on his skin. The sound of water on the move. “Thanks.”

The Lion purred.

After a time, he decided to go and find Lizenne so that she could give him those lessons. He was so caught up in speculating just what those lessons would entail, he never thought to ask just who had told the Lions that he and the others were coming.

The Castle made a rendezvous with one of the Fleet ships during the midnight shift two days later, and Allura was glad to greet Captain Zorjesca of the rather strangely-named _Mop._ The Captain was glad to see them as well, having heard of the battle in the Nanthral Cluster, and of just how many enemies that Voltron had been up against.

“ _It didn't surprise us at all that you had to make a quick escape,”_ Zorjesca told them, once they'd filled her in on the details. _“We were fairly sure that you'd be able to handle the destructor fleet, but the Prince and a Robeast of unprecedented power was a bit much.”_

“No argument there,” Allura replied. “Did our efforts have the desired effect?”

Zorjesca made a complicated gesture with several hands, the overall impression of which was positive. _“Yes; the fleet made it no further into Beronite space, and the Homeworld itself is now totally englobed in defenders. To attack them now would be suicide. This has emboldened a number of other resistance organizations, and they wish to talk with you. They were wary before this, but your successes have convinced them that your advice might be worth having. Yantilee agrees that this would be a good thing, Princess—those groups are operating further in toward the Core Worlds, and we could use some allies that far in.”_

Allura nodded decisively. “We have ambitions in that direction as well. Where should we meet them?”

“ _For security's sake, their emissaries are being brought to a dark port well out in an often unregarded part of space: Borisaln Galaxy, Phanthur Sector, Tulilin Region, quadrant four, the fifth binary system in the Lirico constellation. The fifth planet out from the greater sun, known locally as Huaren.”_

“I have it,” Coran said cheerfully. “Alfor and the others got stuck there for a phoeb or three, once, when a nova cascade went off practically in their faces. The Mad Mazrup of Morbilene had one hell of a dead-man switch, d'you see, and he'd lured the team out to a little cluster of red giants to test it out. Worked like a charm, I'm afraid. End result was a whole new nebula, an atomized tyrant, and a desperate escape that wound up stripping the Castle's thrusters. Had to set down on that rocky little world to make repairs, and Gyrgan wound up going feral in a rather nice little upland. Took forever to coax him down out of the crags.”

Zorjesca twittered in amusement. _“I find it hard to resist the temptation myself. A concealed meeting site has been set up, those on watch will guide you in, and the emissaries will arrive in the next day or so.”_

“We will be there shortly,” Allura replied firmly. “Please alert Yantilee for us, will you?”

“ _We will do that, Princess,”_ Zorjesca replied politely. _“Signing out.”_

Allura's spirits rose as Coran laid in the coordinates and alerted the  _Chimera_ to the change in plans. She hadn't done much in the way of diplomatic work since they had left Jeproba, and she was eager for the chance to make new friends and allies. It always gave her a great feeling of accomplishment to seal a proper alliance, bringing together the fragmented civilizations into a new and cohesive whole. Coran gave her the go-ahead, and she opened the wormhole with a subtle feeling of joy, and the two ships slipped away into the watery blue circle as smoothly as one could wish for.

The next few vargas were spent in navigating through a large and busy binary star system, moving with all care and caution toward the unassuming little world where the meeting would take place. She and Coran parked the Castle in a stable orbit, at which time she decided to alert the rest of their party to what was happening... or, at least, the ones who were awake. Shiro, as always, was up early, as were Zaianne and Erantha, and they came up to the bridge to have a look at their next port of call. Keith and Pidge drifted in a little later, having stayed up late playing video games, and Pidge was a little annoyed at having missed saying hello to Zorjesca. Lance dragged in shortly afterward, still looking a little depressed; Lizenne had drilled him ruthlessly in self-cleansing techniques the previous day, and he had found them difficult going. Last of all and moving as though he ached was Hunk, who blinked at the little brown-and-green world on the screens and said, “Got your message, Allura. Should I make up a box of cookies?”

Allura smiled at that. Cookies were fast becoming a tradition among the Fleet, and every ship's cook competed to come up with new and better recipes. “I don't doubt that they'll be welcome. Are you all right?”

Hunk rubbed at an elbow. “Yeah, I'll be fine. It must be raining in Idaho right now. That always makes my joints stiffen up a little.”

Lance eyed Hunk suspiciously. “Raining in Idaho?”

“Yup,” Hunk replied casually, rolling a shoulder. “Probably Boise. It might be Twin Falls, but it's usually Boise. I've always been able to tell.”

Lance scowled at him. “Hunk, you were born in Samoa. All of your ancestors lived in Samoa.”

“Pure-blooded, right back to the Ice Age,” Hunk said proudly.

Lance wasn't impressed. “Your folks moved to Cuba when you were two, into the house right across the street from my family.”

Hunk smiled nostalgically. “Yup, and it was a lot of fun growing up with you guys.”

“Hunk, we went to school in _Arizona._ You've never been anywhere near Idaho. The closest you've ever been to Idaho is potato chips!”

“And fries, bakers, gratin, mash, and all the rest. I love potatoes!” Hunk said happily, “The best ones are from Idaho, you know.”

“Hunk, you are currently a frillion miles from Pluto, much less Idaho!” Lance insisted. “You couldn't possibly tell if it was raining there from all the way out here!”

Hunk gave him a haughty look. “Test me.”

Lance growled. Lizenne's lessons had been very useful, but they hadn't been at all comfortable or easy, and his dreams last night had been ugly at best. As a result, he'd been moody and grumpy for the last day and a half. “Coran, are we close enough to Earth to check?”

“Well, let's see,” Coran said cheerfully, perfectly willing to facilitate a challenge, “Yes, I believe so, Lizenne did leave that nice little satellite there to keep an eye on things for us. Hmm, still there, too. So's the planet, which does help.”

A window popped up on the screen, showing the dearly familiar orb of home, starred with city lights where the terminator rolled over one hemisphere. The Paladins sighed to see it, and were glad to see it intact.

“All right then, what continent am I looking for?” Coran asked. “This one?”

Pidge shook her head. “Nope, that's Australia. Try looking east.”

“Hold on, need to patch in with a few of the local satellites... aha. How 'bout this one?” Coran asked, pointing to another large landmass.

“That's Africa,” Shiro said. “You'll want to go north, and east some more.”

Coran shifted the view. “How about this one? It looks a bit like a boot. Very stylish.”

“Italy,” Keith said, “and it's not a continent. Come on, Coran, it's on the same one that we visited before, to drop off Sam and Matt.”

“You could have said,” Coran sniffed, and rotated the view again. “All right, here we are, now what region, prefecture, principality, or small belligerent country is Idaho?”

“It's a state, Coran,” Zaianne said. “I've actually had to study the geography before. Middling northwest, just about... yes, right there. That large city on the lower left side of that area... and yes, it looks to be raining in Boise.”

Lance stared at Hunk incredulously.  _“How...?”_

Hunk shrugged. “It's my one super power. Well, the one that wasn't given to me by my Lion, anyway. I've always been able to tell. It's not even predictive. It has to actually be raining there before I can feel it.”

Lance rubbed at his face with one hand. “That has to be the most useless super power ever.”

“Yeah, but it's mine.”

Erantha smiled at Lance's disgruntled expression. “Everyone should have something nice.”

“You said it, lady,” Hunk said, and then frowned thoughtfully at the stars around them. “Actually... speaking of that, are we anywhere near that Space Mall, Coran? The one we went to, to get those replacement skaltrite lenses for the drive?”

Coran glanced quizzically at him over his shoulder, but tapped at his console anyway. “Yes, actually, and well within pod range. Why? We've got all the lenses we need, and I'm not giving up any more of my Olkari floating cubes.”

“Yeah, but we don't have a cow.” Hunk drew himself up, his jaw came forward, and his brows came down in that special way that told everyone present that on this subject, he would not be moved. “Allura, I'm no good at diplomatic stuff unless I'm the one doing the catering, and Lance couldn't diplomat his way out of a paper bag right now. I'm going to take him and head out to the Mall, and we're going to get a cow.”

“Wait, what, I'm going too?” Lance blurted, surprised at this sudden change of plans.

“Yeah. If we go now, we might even get back in time to attend the meeting, too.” Hunk leveled the Finger of God at Lance. “You need a break, so I'm going to get you out of the house, and we're going to do something important for your morale. I'll need help handling the cow, too—I want her happy, healthy, and ready to go by the time we get back here.”

Erantha raised an eyebrow. “Am I missing something? A cow is a domestic animal of some sort?”

Hunk waved an admonishing finger at her. “Erantha, Humanity has been having a love affair with cattle since before Zarkon was in diapers. The only animal that spends more time in Earth's barnyards is the chicken, but the farmer's best friend is his cow. They stand there, eat grass, and _produce._ Every day, you get free fertilizer from the manure. You can get like a half-ton of meat off of a steer, oxen can move wagons loaded with literally tons of stuff, they can plow a field, you can make all kinds of things from the hide, horns, bones, and hooves, and dairy cattle give milk, which is the cook's ambrosia. From that, you get cream, yogurt, butter, and cheese, all of which are awesome, and from those you can get things like cheesecake, gratin, souffles, _real_ ice cream--”

“Cheeseburgers,” Keith said hungrily, eyes glinting.

“Flan?” Lance said in a small, hopeful voice.

Hunk nodded gravely. “I have your grandmother's recipe.”

Lance boggled at him. “Hunk, how did you get that recipe? It's, like, super top-secret! She's won the neighborhood cooking competitions so many times with that recipe that they won't let her compete anymore. She's got it locked up so tight that even our purple space ninjas couldn't steal it!”

“I'll be the first to admit that I can't ninja, Lance,” Hunk replied with quiet pride, “but I _can_ sumo.”

Lance's stare turned patently owlish. “You sumo'd my _grandmother?”_

“Yeah, and she fights dirty,” Hunk said, rubbing his shoulder in remembered pain. “She would've beaten me hands-down if I hadn't knocked over a full bottle of peanut oil, and things got really slippery there. My knees were better than hers, that's all.”

“Hunk...” Lance moaned, “how did you get it out of the house? All of my relatives have been trying to get ahold of that recipe for years.”

Hunk smirked. “Pure luck, really. Like I said, I knocked over the peanut oil, and it was _really_ slippery. The back door of the kitchen was open, and all I had to do was brace my feet on the cabinets and push. Simple, even if I messed up my favorite shirt.”

“ _Where was I in all of this?”_ Lance demanded.

Hunk shrugged. “At the zoo.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, remember? You bugged your Uncle Diego into taking you to the zoo because Carlos was being himself again, and neither of you wanted to deal with that. You came back with a fuzzy stuffed kangaroo, and didn't have to help everybody else clean up the oil mess. It was a really good kangaroo, too.”

“Yeah, and he got to command my toy shark navy,” Lance said, but looked disappointed regardless. “I'm still sorry that I missed it.”

“I'm pretty sure that Carlos got the whole thing on video, anyway,” Hunk said. “You can bully it out of him the next time we swing by Earth. Allura, we're gonna go get a cow, all right?”

“I know better than to refuse,” Allura said wryly. “But do be careful, you two; we're a little out of our territory here.”

“We should be okay,” Lance mused, “the Lions can handle pretty much anything, and carry a cow.”

Hunk shook his head. “We're taking the big pod shuttle, not the Lions.”

“Huh?” Lance asked. “But--”

“No Lions. Remember how much trouble we got into, just for looking like pirates for two minutes? And we'll have to park in the Mall's parking lot again, and they'd stand out like sore thumbs. Think of it--” Hunk demonstrated with his hands, placing imaginary vehicles into theoretical parking slots. “--Minivan, minivan, sports car, Studebaker, Volkswagen, _LION, LION_ , pickup truck... it just wouldn't work, Lance. You might as well park a couple of antique Sherman tanks in the handicapped zone at a Mega-Mart. People would complain, and we'd get a huge ticket.”

Something about the mental image made Lance vent a faint puff of amusement. Hunk was on that immediately.

“Aha! I saw that, that was a smile, my master plan is working already!” Hunk grinned and wrapped a friendly arm around Lance's shoulders. “We'll wear our armor if it'll make you feel better, but we'll have to take it off when we get there. I really don't want to have to dodge the mall cop again.”

“Just remember that you still owe me a trip to the Mall, too,” Allura called to them as Hunk dragged Lance away. “I haven't forgotten, you know.”

“We'll pick you up something sparkly,” Hunk promised, and pulled Lance out of the room.

“We'll take you there eventually,” Shiro reassured her. “I could do with something as normal as a trip to the Mall myself.”

Despite his protests, it felt good to get out of the Castle for a little while, and Lance leaned back in his seat and watched the stars go by in relative peace while Hunk rattled on about his dairy-based ambitions. In truth, he wouldn't mind having a cow around the place. One of his many uncles owned a farm, and Lance had spent a considerable amount of his childhood getting to know the livestock. He had fond memories of helping to milk the cows, chasing the sheep, tickling the pigs, being chased by the chickens, and making friends with the alpacas. He had really liked the alpacas. They were cute and soft and fluffy, and the big red-brown one with the white face had once kicked Carlos into a manure barrow. That had been a really good alpaca, and he'd fed it every bit of clover he could find. Having a cow would be a taste of home.

_Flan,_ something in the back of his mind insinuated, and the thought of digging into a big bowl of silky custard made his mouth water. He'd also heard that making yogurt was really easy.

“--Gonna have to reserve at least some of the milk for one of the fast cheeses,” Hunk was saying, “mozzarella, maybe. Did you see the look in Keith's eyes? He's a cheddar man, and it can take as much as six months to get a decent medium cheddar ready, so I'll need to distract him with something. It's been a long time since we've had anything like a pizza. Hmmm... maybe I can build something that'll speed up the curing and aging process for hard cheeses. I took a couple of classes on cheese-making and I've read a lot of books, and one of the most important things that goes into a really good hard cheese is patience, but none of those professionals has ever had to live with Galra in the house. I know that dogs really like cheese. Do you think that Galra would like it, too?”

“Keith does,” Lance said absently, admiring a distant cluster of bright blue stars. “Zaianne wasn't complaining, either.”

Hunk hummed thoughtfully. “So long as we can keep them from hunting the cow, we should be okay. I know that they like ice cream. The alien beast milks I've worked with are okay, but they're not the real thing. Lizenne promised me that she'd clone me up some rennet and help make sure that the cow stays healthy. I've got the pasture in the hydroponics deck all ready to go, we've seeded it with an Altean grass that grows really fast, and Coran says that we could eat it if we needed to, and...”

Lance closed his eyes for a moment and let Hunk's chatter roll over him like a wave. It was remarkably soothing, and he found himself looking forward to a pleasant afternoon. They actually had a fair chunk of usable currency this time, and he'd seen some shops that he really wanted a closer look at. He opened his eyes to find that Hunk was steering them through an asteroid belt at the moment with an ease and precision that his teammate hadn't had back in the beginning. It helped that it was a pretty old belt. All the asteroids had pretty much settled out into stable orbits without too much small stuff bouncing around and making trouble, and it was easy to thread their way through the lazily-tumbling stones. You did have to watch out for surprises, though, there was always something that might've gotten knocked off course by a wayward comet or something. Lance's eyes began to watch for those vagrants almost out of habit, and he blinked and sat up when he saw something large and dark off in the distance that wasn't moving right. Something big, something angular, and something that had straight lines and clean edges that chunks of space junk just didn't have, and it moved with purpose and intent.

“Hunk,” Lance said, pointing out the bogey, “that's not an asteroid.”

Hunk didn't waste time on a response, but boosted their unarmed pod away from the unknown ship in a hurry. It followed them, slipping through the asteroids as smoothly as a knife through water, its dark coloration making it nearly invisible against the blackness of space. Hunk could feel it, though, and he knew what it was even if the pod's sensors didn't—the little craft's systems couldn't see it at all.

“Ghamparva!” Hunk ground out, ducking around a mile-wide lump of rocks and dust. “Not one of Lotor's either—it's too old, and it's being flown by someone who's good at it. Oh, _quiznek,_ he's really good at it.”

Lance groaned, watching as the dark ship flanked them; it was easily two or three times larger than their pod, but no less nimble. “I knew that we should've taken the Lions. Want me to take the controls?”

Hunk was a good pilot, but was perfectly willing to admit that Lance was better, and he flipped the toggle that transferred control to his copilot. “There you go. I don't know if it'll help, though. They're faster than we are.”

Lance bared his teeth at the enemy. “Maybe so, but are they as tricky?”

So saying, Lance rushed the oncoming Ghamparva, forcing it to swerve or be rammed. Lance used the enemy's confusion to boost the ship toward a thick cluster of space debris in hope of losing their pursuit in there. Beside him, Hunk muttered one of the finer examples of engineer's vernacular and thumped a fist on the console.

“What's wrong now?” Lance asked.

“We can't call for help,” Hunk replied grimly. “They're blocking our comms somehow. Don't ask me how, and I can't make them quit that without Pidge or Keith backing me up. Get us out of here, Lance!”

“I'm trying, but he's really good at this,” Lance said, speeding through a narrow gamut of jagged stones. “Can't you do something with our pod, like make it grow bigger thrusters or something?”

“Um--” Hunk said, but got no further.

Lance had put on a burst of speed and had slipped through a tumbling swarm of asteroids and out into a vast clear space. Hanging within that bubble of emptiness was another dark ship, much larger than the first, and it caught their pod in a reddish beam that stopped them cold with a painful jolt. Instantly, the drive went dead. They'd been captured, and there was no way that they would be able to escape.

“Crap-crap- _crap!”_ Lance panted, popping open an emergency panel on the console. “Eject! Follow me!”

The hard knock had joggled Hunk somewhat, making him a little slow on the uptake. “Wait, what?” he asked, but the canopy had popped open and Lance's seat had already lifted off. Hunk shook his head and reached for his own eject button, but a brilliant light suddenly flooded the universe, and he knew nothing more.

Lance soon discovered that tractor beams worked on ejection seats, too, and he abandoned the thing in favor of his own jetpack, which at least could get him to the rear of the pod, and just in time; just as he'd reached the sheltering bulk of the drive tubes, the Ghamparva ship emitted a pulse of shatteringly bright light that dazed him slightly and forced him to grab onto a stabilizer or fall away into the void. “Whoa,” he muttered, shaking his head to clear it. “What was that, Hunk? Hunk?  _Hunk!”_

No answer. Lance turned to look around for his absent friend, but the pod shuttle shuddered and began to drift toward the Ghamparva ship at such a rate that Lance didn't dare let go of his handhold. Instead, he wiggled his way down into the space between the still-warm drive tubes, watching in terror while the larger ship swallowed his whole. The interior was dim, as all Galra ships were, but not so dark as keep Lance from getting a good look around. It was _huge_ in here, with at least ten more of those nasty fighting craft docked neatly in their own little berths, with a special, fenced-off area where the pod was laid down with hardly a bump. A few minutes later, a group of tall, deadly-looking Galra wearing a style of uniform that he'd seen only once before, back when Pidge had startled the Blades with her incredible interrogation skills. The uniforms were a stark black with dark purple piping and some sort of insignia on one shoulder rendered in a deep, bloody red, and they strode past with a hover-cot between them and with a purposeful air around them that seemed a little odd. Lance would have expected them to be excited over the capture, or at least eager to see a real Paladin up close, but no; they were remarkably calm, eyes steady and expressions unreadable, as if this was nothing more than a necessary chore. As if they kidnapped important people every day. Lance lost sight of them around the bulk of the pod, but a minute or two later, they strode away again, this time with a large, limp figure laid out on the cot. Hunk. That flash of light had stunned him!

Lance dropped down and scurried after them, doing his best to keep out of sight; this was surprisingly easy to do, since the Ghamparva seemingly weren't interested in looking behind them. Nasty had told them about that, he remembered suddenly as he lurked beneath an inactive fighter. Galra were prone to overconfidence, especially the toughest and most highly-trained ones. When they were safely inside their most closely guarded and secure spaces, they had trouble believing that they could be anything but safe, and their attention to detail tended to lapse. They just figured that they'd be able to handle whatever came up, if it ever came up. Unfortunately, that was often true. Even Drosh, who had been quite short but unbelievably strong, had not liked fighting Ghamparva up close and personal.

More of Nasty's lessons came to the fore as he followed the group to a different bay, where three small courier craft lay in waiting, and the Unilu's sharp voice seemed to echo in Lance's mind. _There never was a courier that didn't do a little smuggling on the side, Galra included,_ he had said knowledgeably. _They'll always have hidden cargo spaces and they'll always be shielded, and if you know what to look for, you've got the best loot in two seconds, or a hidey-hole in one. Here's what to look for..._

Hunk was brought up the cargo ramp of the leftmost courier where what looked sort of like a medi-pod was waiting. Unfortunately for the Galra, the tight confines of the little ship and the large, limp, and heavy nature of the unconscious Paladin made it difficult for them to lift him in; Lance used their inattention to creep in after them, and a glance to one side revealed a floor panel that didn't look quite like the others. True to Nasty's word, Lance was able to slide it back and slip into the man-sized empty space beneath, and slid the panel closed just as he heard the thud of a body being heaved into the pod a little distance away.

“Whoof!” he heard someone say in a harsh voice. “Doesn't miss many meals, does it?”

“Yellow Paladin,” another man replied in an indifferent tone. “Historically, those tend to be large. Have they found the other one yet?”

“Let me check...” a third said, and muttered into what was probably a communicator of some sort. “No. Not that it matters. It won't be able to get anywhere from that asteroid belt anyway, and while the Emperor wants them alive, he wants the Lions more. The loss of one Paladin won't discomfit him much, and we've got a live one right here. That's enough to lead us to the rest. It's one less enemy to subdue, in my opinion, but they'll hunt around for the second for a little longer.”

One of the others humphed. What if it clings to the outside of the ship?”

The first voice cracked an ugly laugh. “Then the maintenance drones'll be scraping the tinfoil that used to be its fancy armor off of the hull at our next stop. The ship's hull is specially designed to permanently discourage that sort of thing. Works well enough on Marmoran boarders, I know that! Kazlak caught one once, and chained it to the bow just to the fore of the main sensor cluster, so's we could watch when we went into warp. Made a mess, but it sure looked impressive.”

Cruel laughter made Lance grind his teeth in fury.

“Come on, let's get this thing sent off,” the second voice said. “The technicians back at base want very much to have a look at this beast. It's said that there aren't any others of their kind in the Empire.”

The third grunted. “They'll find out if that's true soon enough. Then, if necessary, we can find out where they're from and do something about it. A plague, maybe? There's nothing like a good plague for weakening a troublesome race, and getting rid of any surplus populations. The lab's been coming up with some pretty impressive ones lately, too. One of them has a kill rate of sixty-plus percent and is estimated to render the following three generations near-witless.”

Someone chuckled unpleasantly. “Wait and see. We can always present our suggestions to the Emperor after the interrogation. I don't doubt that he'll want something _special_ for that lot. They've caused a lot of trouble.”

Lance shuddered, his blood running cold at the thought of a worldwide pandemic eating its way through more than half of Earth's population. Lance vowed to stop them, somehow, as their boots clattered over his hiding place and down the ramp. A minute or so later, he heard the hatch close and felt the ship move, slowly at first, and then with a surge of acceleration that grayed his vision and pressed his body hard against one wall of the compartment. If he hadn't been wearing his armor, he would have been crushed by the force of it. Unable to move, he endured the long and uncomfortable trip.

By the time that the little courier craft docked again, all of Lance's muscles had stiffened up and he felt like one huge bruise. Only by dint of sheer determination was he able to force his protesting body to leave his hiding place once another group of Ghamparva had removed Hunk from the cargo compartment, and it was all that he could do to get to another hiding place in the vast docking bay before he collapsed. Gasping for breath, he watched helplessly as they took his teammate away, and then forced himself to calm down long enough to use one of the self-healing techniques that Lizenne had so recently taught him. He whimpered in relief as his spasming muscles loosened up and the worst of the bruising faded off, but by the time he was done, Hunk was long gone and the docking bay was empty.

With a grunt, he pulled himself up into a sitting position and stared around at the cavernous room, lined on all sides with various grades of manned and unmanned craft, all of them more evil-looking than all the rest. He was currently lurking beneath something that may have had a missile launcher in its ancestry somewhere, and there seemed to be no visible exit available.

“Okay, Lance,” he said to himself, “we're really in trouble now. We're in a secret base a zillion miles from help, Hunk's been dragged off to a lab where they're going to do some really bad things to him, these are guys who make the Blades really, really nervous, and I'm all alone. Oh, holy crow, what am I gonna do? What am I gonna do?”

Something rumbled ominously in the distance, making him flinch and glance around nervously, but whatever was going on didn't involve him for the moment. “Okay, calm down,” he whispered. _“Think._ What would the others do in a situation like this? Well... um... what would Shiro do?”

Lance tried to visualize his team leader's probable reaction to being trapped in this incredibly hostile environment. “Shiro would... Shiro would be incredibly heroic and beat the snot out of all of the bad guys, and he'd rescue all the prisoners and steal a ship to make his escape with, and blow this place up with his total mad skills, and light would glint off of his teeth whenever he smiled, and the very air around him would sparkle with his innate nobility.” Lance groaned. “I can't do that. All right, what would Allura do?”

Allura's own innate nobility was duly considered. “Um. Allura would... well, she'd be incredibly princessly... is that even a word? Who cares? She'd change colors and stuff and zip around the place and maybe punch some guys through a wall 'cause Alteans are hardcore, and she'd probably sparkle while she did it, too, and I can't do that. Damn. Well, what would Hunk do?”

Hunk's current situation was given some thought. “Be knocked unconscious and dragged away by seriously evil people. No good. Even if he was awake and loose, he'd probably bend this place to his will like it was a fistful of silly-putty, and he'd probably rebuild it into some sort of pirate base and sparkle while he did it, and I can't do that. All right, what would Keith do?”

Something rumbled ominously again, and Lance wished that it wouldn't do that, whatever it was. “Um. Keith would... Keith would go all space ninja on this place, get in a big swordfight against impossible odds and win anyway, and do some ninja stuff to the power core that would leave this place a burning wreck behind him, which means a lot of sparks everywhere, which means that he'd be sparkling too, and I still can't do that. What's with all the sparkling going on here? Okay, what would Pidge do?”

Lance thought about what would happen if Pidge ever got her hands on this big a chunk of Ghamparva technology, and winced. “Holy crow. Taking over the place and turning it into Pirate Central would only be the start. There would be no end to the robot Macarena, and the Marmorans already think that she's the Queen of Sparkles, and I can't do that. Crud. All right, how 'bout Coran? What would he do?”

Lance considered Coran's actions during their recent tangle with the Gantarash, who had been just as monstrous as the Ghamparva in some ways. “Coran would tell a whole pile of weird stories to anyone who would listen, while confusing the enemy to death with tactics that shouldn't work but do anyway, and he sort of manufactures his own sparkles. I still can't do that. Aargh, come on! How about the purple werewolf half of the party?”

Lance thought about the combined talents of two highly-trained Blades, a rogue witch, and one of the most skilled engineers that he'd ever seen, and felt even more inadequate than usual. “Oh god, they'd just turn this whole place into one big sparkle, wouldn't they? I can't do that. Well... uh... what would the dragons do?”

Tilla and Soluk were given some thought. “They'd go _gronk_ and wreck the place, probably while doing the Hokey-Pokey, and they sparkled enough for everybody the last time they did that. I can't do that either.” Lance groaned miserably, grasping at straws. “What would the _mice_ do?”

Platt and his little team were brought to the forefront of his mind. “Well, they're cute and little and fuzzy, and they'd...” Lance's eyes grew very wide as he realized what a huge advantage his little squeaky friends had. “They'd get into the walls and start pulling wires and jamming stuff up and messing up circuitry... _and I can do that!”_

Lance drew himself up as proudly as he could without knocking himself senseless on the weapon of mass destruction that he was hiding under. “Today,” he declared to whatever forces of Fate that might be listening, “I am a mouse, and I will sparkle in my own way! _Squeeeeeak!”_

With that, Lance's eyes did another sweep of his environs, coming to rest on a particular panel on a wall not too far away. Nasty had had a lot to teach him about such things, and he had paid very close attention to those lessons, and thus was able to pop the hatch to the service tunnel without difficulty. Thanking both his mentor for the skills and his genes for making him long and skinny, he wiggled into the shaft and was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks and much love to each person that comments on our stories. It really does make us both so happy to see that people enjoy this grand mess, which inspires us to keep writing. In case I get completely swamped at work and can't get around to posting next week, Spanch and I wish everyone happy holidays of whichever sort they prefer to celebrate. Love to all! And now, I will sleep! *passes out*


	21. Mental Floss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M ALIVE!!! Well, sorta. A little bit? Eh, synthetic zombie-like product. Whatever. Have a chapter!

Chapter 21: Mental Floss

“Thank you, Nasty,” Lance muttered under his breath as he slid past another junction box. “Thank you, Nasty.”

That had been his mantra for the past half-hour or so, every time he'd seen something that he could recognize and use. The sly little Unilu had been absolutely correct whenever he'd called the Galra “our boring purple overlords”; they had fallen into a habit of rigid standardization that had become nearly unbreakable over the centuries, and all of their installations were laid out in pretty much the same way. The Ghamparva, being a wily bunch, had added a few refinements of their own, but the bones of this station were pretty much the same as any of the others.

He paused, switched his visor to infrared-vision, and had a good look at a suspiciously blank area of wall that was just a little bit warmer and dryer than the rest of it. Bright red symbols gleamed on the dark plating, and he muttered an additional, “Thank you, Modhri and Lizenne,” before heading onward; it had been Lizenne who had shown them the secret of the invisible road signs, and Modhri who had taught him enough of Galran script to read the level designations.

He had the feeling that Hunk would be in the really high-security areas, probably in or near a lab, or perhaps in the supermax detention block. So far, he seemed to be right—Hunk's aetheric signature shone cool and golden in his mind, and the direction it was leading him in was definitely trending toward the more heavily-defended parts of the station. There didn't seem to be any security measures in the service tunnels, though, possibly because they were far too tight a fit for any adult Galra. They were pretty cramped even for Lance; even Drosh, who had been slightly shorter than Keith the last time they'd met, would have gotten irreversibly wedged in these narrow corridors. Hunk might be able to fit, or mostly, but it would be a squeeze for him. _Well,_ he thought hopefully, _if I can get him out of wherever they're holding him and wake him up enough to help, he could mojo this place to the point where we wouldn't have to hide in the walls. I hope._

Lance took a deep breath and slid past another intersection, holding that hope as though it were a jewel. So far, Hunk felt alive and well, but deeply asleep. They could be doing anything to him at all right now, from cloning his nose to painting his toenails, and _where did that idea come from?_ Lance thought, shaking his head at his own brain, which did weird things when he was stressed. _Keep going. The sooner I find him, the sooner I can keep them from doing anything worse._

He heard voices up ahead and stopped dead, holding very still and listening. Like all Galra habitations, the station was remarkably roomy, and it made him wonder sometimes if they were prone to claustrophobia. There were a lot of Ghamparva around though, running errands and working at terminals, or doing whatever evil secret black-ops types did when they were off-duty. Every so often, he would pass a ventilation grill that allowed him a small view of the rooms outside, and it was there that he got an inkling of who did the maintenance in these tight little spaces in the walls. Ignored entirely by the uniformed Galra were smaller aliens, dull-eyed slaves in black bodysuits and tattered smocks, cleaning, fetching, and carrying in a mechanical fashion that raised the hairs on the back of Lance's neck. Nasty had said that the Ghamparva liked brain implants as a way of controlling their captives, and here was the proof.

Lance tried not to guess how likely it might be that Hunk was getting fitted with one of those right now.

Lance crept closer to the voices as quietly as he could. There were only two of them, and they sounded a little different than the Ghamparva did. Ghamparva tended to pitch their voices low, possibly a facet of their training. These two were speaking in more normal tones: one sounding garrulous and gravelly, and the other one sounded callow and very young. Whoever they were, they were standing in what appeared to be a cul-de-sac of a sort; a bare, out-of-the way annex to a pair of storerooms, and as he approached the ventilation grid at the end of the tunnel, he smelled the tell-tale odor of malted lighter fluid. Horath! A couple of men had snuck away for a clandestine drink and chat. That was a little unusual here, too. Like the Blades, who generally saw strong drink as just another weapon in their already overstocked arsenals, the Ghamparva seemed to be a pretty sober bunch. Curious, Lance crept closer, his ears quivering.

“Really, Sarge?” the younger man said in a quavering, half-soused voice.

“Oh, yes, lad, and those weren't the worst of them,” growled the older one, and there was a faint glugging sound and a fresh gust of horath fumes before he continued. “Not even close, even those times where you had to check your boots every morning for surprises. Bad as those things were, they were just bugs. They weren't bright. It was on the last moon in the cluster that we found the real prizewinners. Nice little rock, for all that it hadn't anything of worth on it other than a few edible fruits and herbs, and what looked to be some sort of old wreck, maybe. No beast bigger than knee-high, neither, and those were rare. What weren't rare were the vermin, and those got _everywhere,_ and they weren't dumb. Oh, no, lad, they were smart, and they could _plan.”_

“How big were they, Sarge?” the younger man asked, and hiccuped slightly.

Lance slid forward as carefully as he could. The two men were standing almost directly underneath the vent, and he couldn't see them clearly. On the other hand, what he could see told him something peculiar. They were both ordinary soldiers, not Ghamparva, and by all rights should not be here.

The sergeant grunted and raised a gauntleted hand. “Little. Awfully little, really, for something that dangerous. Didn't look dangerous neither, which was how I knew they were trouble from the start. No longer'n a hand, most of them. Light-colored, furry, four legs, long skinny tails, big round ears, two beady little eyes, and they squeaked, high and thin. 'Cept for the big ones. Those were as long as your arm, louder, and had voices of doom.”

Lance blinked, and the younger soldier was equally confused. “Doesn't sound so bad to me, Sarge. Were they poisonous or something?”

“No.” The flask glugged again, and the sergeant passed it over so that his junior could take a swig. “Poison fangs would have been an improvement. We knew where we stood with poison fangs, oh yes! These were smart, which is a whole 'nother boatload of hazards. Cute and fuzzy and smart, which only made it worse.”

_Mice?_ Lance thought. Sarge's description wasn't all that detailed, but it sure sounded like Altean space mice, who could be just as hardcore as the Alteans themselves when they had to be. A quick thrill along his nerves distracted him for a moment—something had happened to Hunk, although he wasn't sure just what, and he was being moved again. Lance didn't really have time to listen to an old soldier maundering at a half-drunk rookie right now. Unfortunately, if he wanted to get to the proper set of tunnels without threading his way back through about a quarter-mile of tight passages, he had to get past these two guys. He could just see another grid on the opposite wall, and there were a pile of crates stacked under it, which was perfect. There was no possible way that he could zap them with his bayard from this angle, which wasn't, and he really didn't want to have to do that to them. Akazia's death was too recent and raw in his memory to even consider that, and using his aetheric talents to drop them in their tracks made him go cold inside. It was far too easy to make mistakes with that technique, even with Lizenne's lessons fresh in his mind.

The sergeant growled something impolite; the young soldier had apparently asked another stupid question, and the old fellow had taken offense. “Nothing of the sort, lad!” he snarled, waving the half-empty flask expressively. “They got into  _everything,_ I said! Nothing was safe! They got into the surveying equipment and ruined three million gac's worth of sensitive tech in less time that it took to spit. They got into the supply bins and cleaned 'em out, and not just the food, neither. If it had a wire, they pulled it. If it had a gear, they jammed it. If it had circuitry, they fouled it. They even got into the lander and disabled the damned thing from bow to stern. A Marmoran saboteur couldn't have done a better job if he'd had all night to work on it! Our engineer near drove himself mad trying to keep them from undoing his repairs, and they wouldn't take bait, nor would they hold still long enough to shoot 'em. First thing that went, by the way, were the force-screen barriers that would've kept 'em out. Smart, I said, and it took no longer than two days to render us helpless, and that was when the big ones showed up. They had these big chisel teeth, and they knew how to use 'em! Went right through the joints in our armor, and then when they had you down they went for the throat--”

“Sarge!” the younger man protested in a terrified squeal. “How'd you get away, Sarge?”

“They'd killed the comms,” Sarge replied darkly. “Exploratory teams have to stay in constant contact with the ship, and silence is as good as a scream to the boys above. If the rescue teams hadn't gotten down when they did, I wouldn't be here today, nor would fifteen other men. Not a good score, that; the lander'd carried thirty.”

The younger man gulped. “You're well away, then, Sarge.”

“Maybe,” the sergeant grumbled, “but I can't be sure. T'was years ago, but we hadn't the firepower to blow the planet, and it's too poor and remote a place for the other Exploratory ships to bother with. Every so often over the years, though, I've heard them squeaking behind me. They've tasted my blood, lad, and I'm sure that they're following me; the only place I haven't heard them is here.”

And there was the solution to two of Lance's problems right there. It just didn't sit too well with him.

_No, no, it's not a good idea, they're half-drunk already and might start shooting. They might raise the alarm, they might decide to climb up and have a look, and besides, it is a totally dick move._

_On the other hand, I need to get past them, and I really don't want to have to shoot them._

Lance took a deep breath and said, in the most sepulchral voice that he could muster, _**“Squeeeeeeak!”**_

The younger soldier let out a terrified scream. “They've found you, Sarge!”

“Run, boy, run, or they'll have you, too!” Sarge shouted, and they both fled as though the squeaking hordes of rodent hell were hot on their heels.

Lance sighed, and arranged himself in a kneeling position, hands clasped as if in prayer.  _“Lo siento, Mama,”_ he said with deep contrition. “I am a bad, bad boy, and somewhere out there, your Lance-you-little-shit-o-meter is going off like gangbusters. I know that when I finally return home, the first thing my body will encounter is  _la chancla._ My ass is already tingling in anticipation.”

It really was, too, Lance thought as he popped open the ventilation grid and dropped down onto the floor below. As quick as he could, he scrambled up on top of the crates and forced an entry into the next set of tunnels. Hopefully, he'd be able to persuade her to smack him in private. Even a genuine space hero's reputation would take a hit if his own mother whacked him across the rump with her shoe on international television.

_And somewhere to the Galactic southeast and several thousand lightyears away, Lance's mother paused in the act of helping her children fold the laundry. On her face was an expression that they knew well, and had reason to fear. “Somewhere,” she said slowly, one hand reaching down and the corresponding foot coming up, “my son is being a little shit.”_

_Reflexively, she looked around for the erring offspring, and saw that his siblings had backed well away, hands over their own behinds and watching her with wary eyes. With a sigh, she returned her shoe to its proper place and continued with her work. She'd find a way to settle the score with her wayward brat later._

Tracking Hunk's movements through the station's service ducts was not easy. He could only get a general idea of where his friend had been taken, and trying to follow the station's liquid utilities did not help. The entire station, and it was a big one, bore a thick miasma of something he'd encountered before; evil—hot, fresh, and ugly, and the reek of it made it difficult to get a detailed look at the place. While most of the station was very similar to other stations and ships that he'd been on, some complete paranoid had designed the plumbing. Every single restroom had its own personal water reservoir and waste-handling system. All of what felt like laboratories had similar systems of their own, although they handled other things as well, and he really didn't want to think about those. The kitchen (it had to be a kitchen, nothing else around here had a faint taste of whatever the Galra equivalent was of a waste disposal unit half full of substandard ghrembak stew) had something similar, and he really, _really_ didn't want to start drawing those parallels. The dormitory area also had its own private systems, and all of them were buried under a thick layer of heavy-duty security. It made sense from a sort of Spy versus Spy kind of view; one of the best ways to get rid of a lot of enemies in a hurry was to do nasty things to the water supply, and that was impossible here. The security probably went double for the air supply. Lance found himself forced to employ a trick that he'd used before, only with the focus screwed up so tight that the knob nearly broke.

Galra didn't like having much moisture in the air, particularly not the Kedrekans and Golrazi, and so a fair amount of the air-handling system was dedicated to dehumidifying the station. That meant that all of the air cycled through those particular systems, carrying the moist breath of everyone in the station. That meant that, theoretically, Lance could track Hunk down by finding the air that smelled like Human. He knew what Hunk smelled like, all right. He smelled like big, clean, happy male, plus whatever he'd been cooking lately, plus whatever he'd last eaten. It was like trying to track a particular trail of mist through a classic London pea-soup fog, but it was possible. The air ducts were thick with Galran emanations, a sort of doggish, faintly spicy, protein-rich aroma that ranged from pedigreed pup to junkyard hound, a dusty-purple predatory medley that made him nervous. There were whiffs of other peoples as well, traces that came to his mind's nose in shades of green and pink and orange and brown, all overlaid by something grayish and unpleasant. After a time, he paused, sniffing, and then grinned in triumph. He had just discovered the faint golden exhalations of someone who'd been eating atinbuk sausage and quillop-jam cookies, and he knew for a fact that only one person on this station other than himself could possibly have had those recently. He should know—he'd shared those sausages with Hunk this very morning at breakfast. A discovery like that was definitely worth a twinkle or two, he felt, if not a full sparkle. Glittering inwardly, Lance turned to follow that trail and carried on.

After creeping through what felt like miles of cramped ducting, he eventually found himself in an odd series of tunnels near what felt like the main cell block, and he didn't like it. Now that he was close enough, he could sense living water—live bodies, and a lot of them. Over a hundred, he estimated, all in varying stages of disrepair, and that upset him even more; the Ghamparva were not kind to their captives, and many of those were emanating pain and despair in an almost visible fog. Closer to hand were a series of five smaller rooms that might have been offices in any other installation. In this one, three were empty; one contained only one very strange signature, and the other held seventeen of those sort of grayed-out people that Lance had pegged mentally as “zombies”, the mind-controlled slaves of the residents. Unfortunately, sitting among them was Hunk, and all other considerations paled before that one. Recklessly, he found the junction box that controlled the surveillance devices for this area, yanked the housing off by main strength, and then ripped out every wire and circuit board he could find.

Nasty had warned him about that: _It's a bit of a desperate measure, but it has a pretty good chance of buying you some time, especially in the big bases,_ the Unilu had said. _Galra get complacent when they're tucked up safe in their little forts, and they'll usually ascribe outages to sloppy maintenance and send in a drone or some poor underpaid bastard of a tech to fix it. If you're going to break the box, break it big so that you have plenty of room to run, and then don't waste any time getting the job done._

Lance had no intention of hanging about once he'd found Hunk, but he had a lot of pent-up emotion and a burning need to relieve some of it. There was a water pipe above the box as well, just a little one from a private source on the level above, and it took hardly any energy at all to freeze it solid. A hard strike with the butt of his bayard broke it easily, sending water splashing with gratifying results into the damaged box. This sort of thing had happened once when he was in fifth grade, and the whole school had lost power for two days, and watching the head janitor yelling at the Superintendent about how he'd been nagging the upper faculty about the bad piping for months had been great. Lance grinned and headed onward. Nobody had liked the Superintendent, as he recalled, and finding out exactly what he'd been using the school's Maintenance and Repairs Fund for had caused a scandal that had landed the school in the news for over a week and the Superintendent in jail. Leaving the pipe gushing merrily behind him, he headed for the appropriate room.

The tunnel opened out at ground level, thankfully, although it took some work to pop the grid without damaging it. The room itself was completely bare, except for floor mats laid out with exacting regularity. Sitting on those mats, eyes empty and looking more like deactivated machines than anything else, were seventeen still figures in slave uniforms. It took Lance a moment to recognize Hunk; they'd been positioned as facing the door on the far side of the room, and some jerk had not only stolen Hunk's signature headband, but had shaved the back of his head; the reverse-mohawk look was definitely not his style. Nonetheless, no amount of bad barbering could disguise the broad shoulders, square jaw, and neat round ears of his best friend in all the universe, and it was with a breathless cry of _“Hunk!”_ and a vast feeling of relief that Lance wrapped his arms around his teammate.

“Boy, am I glad to see you, man,” Lance babbled, “we've gotta get out of here, like, yesterday. It's evil in here, and full of super evil bad guys, and some of them want to infect Earth with some kind of mega-plague, and I had to scare a couple of guys, only they weren't too evil, just scared of mice, and there are a lot of people here who needed rescuing months ago at least, and... um. Hunk?”

Hunk hadn't reacted in the slightest when Lance had embraced him, and hadn't moved a millimeter during his blithering. Almost unbidden, Lance's hand drifted upward to touch the back of Hunk's shorn head, and found something cold and reeking of malice embedded in the flesh just where the base of the skull met the neck. Lance froze in shock at the realization that his friend's aura was obscured by the same grayish taint that hung about the other slaves, and then something glinted out of the corner of his eye. Not only did every other person in the room have a tiny device affixed to their skulls, but one of the other inmates, a cadaverous-looking, blue-and-yellow-striped alien had looked up from its mindless contemplation of the middle distance and was staring at him. It had three eyes on long stalks, two of which were still devoid of independent thought. The third one, on the other hand, seemed to have a mind of its own, and that one was studying him with worrying intent.

Up in Level 3 Security, one monitoring officer leaned over and had a look at his partner's screens. One of the Live Resources temporary storage and interrogation blocks had gone abruptly dark; as if that hadn't been annoying enough, a few seconds later a structural failure alert from Tertiary Water Reservoir #27 started beeping insistently at them. They'd been trying to find out why for the past several minutes. It couldn't have been bad maintenance; both the drones and the slaves had been very carefully reprogrammed just last week, and a temperature sensor near the reservoir tank had registered an impossible drop in one very specific place. Being a veteran of many attempted break-ins and a naturally suspicious person as well, his fellow officer had activated one of the off-line slaves—one that had been repurposed as a potential infiltration unit. What it was seeing now was rather surprising.

“Well, they were wondering where the blue one had gotten to,” he said, adjusting the focus a little. “I wonder how it got in?”

His companion puffed a faint, anticipatory laugh. “We'll have to ask it later. Perhaps they'll get the yellow one to ask it. Should be fun to watch.”

The security officer gestured a quick negative. “I doubt it. Tashrak himself sent word that the Paladins are wanted implanted, but otherwise intact. He's got plans.”

“Ah,” his companion said lightly. “Haggar?”

A shrug. “Maybe. Maybe not. If we can get our hands on more of them... hah. Or just keep the blue one. It's already been listed as lost, after all. Tashrak doesn't much like the Emperor's witch.”

“Who does, other than the Emperor himself?”

Neither of them cared to comment further upon that. The Ghamparva prided themselves on being the elite among the elite, and it was a sore point with them that the Druids, to say nothing of their mistress, were still able to peel even the best of them like a phor bulb. Aetheric science was still the one area in which the Ghamparva lacked expertise, and the Order had been a strictly male-only organization from the start. There had been some attempts in the various laboratory stations to come up with a solution to the problem, but those projects had thus far been unsuccessful. Disappointing, really, but you could push a chromosome only so far before it went completely haywire.

“Oops, it's noticed your spy,” the second officer observed. “Want to alert Command?”

The first chuckled, watching the blue Paladin staring owlishly at his surveillance unit, and then trying to shake its fellow awake. “Already done, of course, and the patrols are already on their way over. Hmm. It's trying to drag the yellow one into the service tunnel. Looks like it might just fit, too, assuming that the blue one doesn't rupture itself trying to move its fellow. Didn't someone suggest putting hunter-killer drones in to patrol those tunnels?”

“It's been tried. They kept hunting and killing the maintenance slaves,” his fellow said with a grimace of distaste, “and then not cleaning up the mess. The whole base smelled like the main interrogation chamber after a little while, so they discontinued the drones. Besides, the budget's a little tight right now; Tashrak couldn't get Lady Inzera to refund him the gac for those stolen ships.”

They considered the formidable Ghurap'Han Matriarch while watching the blue Paladin trying to drag the not-inconsiderable heap of deactivated slave toward the back of the storage room. “The brass aren't going to let that stand, you know,” the first muttered. “Tashrak and his bosses are starting to get tired of her having that hold over them, and the High Families have been getting uppity lately.”

“Shame, really,” his partner said, reaching for a particular bank of controls. “She would have made a damned fine field agent. Let's just see about capturing that blue Paladin, shall we? Can't have something like that running around loose.”

Lance stared around in horror as the zombies activated all around him. Silent and dead-eyed, they rose to their feet and turned to face him, blocking his escape route and reaching out with long arms; Lance grabbed for his bayard, but he knew that he couldn't use it. These were innocents, forced to obey masters who wouldn't care all that much if they got damaged while carrying out their orders.

“Oh, god,” he whimpered as the zombies began to approach, and wishing heartily for something that he'd had and thrown away not so long ago. “I need a stun gun. Don't have a stun gun. Why did I not keep that stun gun? 'Cause if I did, the Gantars might have eaten us. Still need a stun gun—oh, holy crow, not you too!”

Hunk was responding to the same signals that the others were, struggling to get up onto his feet and trying to grab at Lance's arms; Lance was sure that the blank expression on Hunk's face and the almost mechanical movements of his body were going to haunt his dreams. He knew that, theoretically, he could reach into these people and render them unconscious. Unfortunately, their physiology was alien enough and in poor enough shape that a single miscalculation could kill them.

“Really, _really_ need a stun gun--” he panted, and then paused in surprise when his bayard responded by reshaping itself into a new configuration. “--I've got a stun gun. I love you, bayard!”

Wasting no further time or breath, he sprayed the bayard's beam around, a sleeting sheet of strange blue energies that dropped them in their tracks. At least he didn't have to worry about this; the Alteans never hurt anyone unless they absolutely had to, and he could feel the minute fluctuations in the beam as it adjusted for each target. They'd be alright, he knew, and he gave Hunk a good dose of it as well when he felt his teammate's hand clamp down on his ankle. Hunk went limp, and Lance gave his bayard a quick kiss before holstering it and grabbing Hunk's arm again. Someone had set these zombies on him, and he did not want to be here when their backup arrived.

“Well, damn,” one security officer remarked to the other as the screen went abruptly blank. “I didn't know that they could do that. Where's that patrol team?”

His partner grunted disapprovingly. “Wrestling with a jammed door. That damaged junction's shorting out, and it's screwing things up all over that area. Maintenance teams have been sent in after it, and I've alerted everyone who needs to know. They'll catch them.”

The first cast him a narrow look. “Soon, I hope. It was the yellow Paladin that smashed Haggar's lab and rendered that entire level unusable. She still hasn't been able to fix it.”

“It won't be able to do that again,” the second said with an ugly smile. “They gave it one of the new permanent implants. It won't ever be able to act on its own again, and we Ghamparva are the only ones who can pull its strings now.”

The first chuckled. “That's going to upset its teammate.”

“Good.”

Lance puffed and wheezed as he hauled Hunk's limp body around a tight corner, and he railed inwardly at the unfairness of the universe. He was a very great deal stronger than he had been before the Lion had carried him and the others away from Earth; unfortunately, he wasn't alone in that. Oh, yes, lots of good, dense muscle had replaced the soft flesh of their comparatively carefree adolescence. Hunk in particular had gone from being a fireplug to becoming a veritable bulwark, and was just about as portable. Even with all of the muscle that Lance had put on, he still wasn't able to simply pick Hunk up and carry him away. This turned out to be a good thing, actually. The ducts carried sound very well, and he could hear it when the Ghamparva forced open the door of the room that he'd so laboriously left, and when they checked the other rooms as well. He even heard one of them talking about sending an assassin-slave unit into the tunnels to flush him and Hunk out of the walls before they left, and Lance didn't relish having to fight a killer in these narrow passages at all. Still, he still had a trick or two up his sleeve, courtesy of a certain Unilu.

_If you need to hide, head for somewhere they've already checked,_ Nasty had told him.  _Galra are predators, and that means that they're used to people running_ away _from them. Heading back behind their lines isn't something that they'll expect most of the time. Just make sure that you've set up something that'll focus their attention somewhere else while you head for that bolthole._

Lance took a moment to trace where the nearest section of plumbing was. According to his other sight, there was a secondary pumping station two levels below where he was sitting that fed wastewater into a purification system. Despite not being much of a mechanic, he knew a thing or two about pumps. One of his older cousins was a big fan of tropical fish, and kept huge tanks that, of course, needed pumps and filtration systems of their own. It didn't take much to jam up a pump, and when when a big one broke, everything ground to a spitting, spraying, stinking, ankle-deep-mess-all-over-the-floor kind of halt.

Lance smirked and froze certain, very important parts of the mechanism, an act that would soon fill a large part of the station with the Smell of Regret _._ He puffed out a long breath that tasted of snow, and hauled Hunk out into one of the empty rooms, taking care to secure the grid behind him. Just to be absolutely sure, he dragged his friend to one side of the room where they wouldn't be immediately apparent from either the door or the ventilation grid. It was dark in here, too, which helped; he wouldn't be using his physical eyes for his next project. He had to get that implant out of Hunk's head, and soon—Nasty had had more stories to tell about these things than just the one he'd told them when they'd gone to steal back Shiro's body, and none of them had ended well.

He managed to get Hunk positioned on his side so that he could reach the implant. Taking off his gauntlet, he felt carefully for the odd little button of alien materials, and cautiously opened his perceptions. Almost immediately, he had to force himself not to vomit. It was cold, with a slick clamminess that brought to mind something unclean, and it carried an intense stench of predatory malice that translated itself in his brain as a thick, toxic, mephitic reek, as if something large and diseased had died in a chemical waste pit, and had been there for a week in hundred-degree temperatures. It was as bad, in its way, as Haggar's cold-storage room had been, or Akazia's rage. The fact that it had sent out dozens of hair-thin, barbed filaments into Hunk's living brain made it worse. Half of them into the medulla oblongata, which controlled things like breathing and organ function; half of them everywhere else. It hadn't quite settled in yet, which was fortunate, but he would have to act fast. More than anything, he longed for his team right now. He could have really used Keith here, to burn the stink off of it, and Pidge, who could probably get it to wiggle back out on its own. And Shiro and Allura, to help out by supporting them, and then to help him hunt down and kick the ever-loving shit out of whoever had put the implant on Hunk in the first place.

They weren't here. They weren't here, which meant that Lance would have to do this alone, and he would have to do the best job in the world because even the tiniest mistake could cause horrific damage.

“Okay,” he whimpered to himself, _“think._ Deep breaths. Remember what Lizenne said about detail work.”

Lizenne had done more than tell him about it. She had brought him a potted... well, a potted organism from the envirodeck, not precisely an animal, but not entirely a plant, either. It had been a sort of mellow blue-green in color, and had looked a little like a rabbit's foot fern, only with impossibly complex, lacy fronds. It had been damaged by a falling rock, with half of its leaves smashed, and she had walked him through repairing it. The whole trick was to use only a tiny, tightly-focused trickle of power while reconstructing even the tiniest leaflets; it took enormous, exhaustive concentration, but it was sparing of energy. He could see now why she'd given him that exercise—those delicate fronds had been in many ways very similar to the nervous and capillary systems in his own body. It wasn't the same sort of task he faced now, but there were clues there that would help.

“Right,” he muttered, gingerly taking hold of the implant's button-shaped external portion. “It's like a parasite. Just gotta wiggle it out. Simple. Just really, really carefully. Here goes...”

Screwing up both his courage and his focus, he sank into a Healer's trance, feeling for the microfilaments, and assessing their shape. Pulling them out wasn't going to be possible, he saw. Every strand had extended dozens of tiny barbs like those on the stems of a stinging nettle. Each microscopic barb had been designed to set itself firmly into neural tissue, the better to transmit the signals that would control its victim totally. The best neurosurgeons in the universe would take one look at this thing and give up on the spot, but Lance wasn't going to allow that to stand. He would somehow have to get the brain tissue to move those prickly little filaments out by itself, but how?

_Think!_ He commanded himself.  _What do I know about brains?_

Precious little, from a scientific or psychological point of view. His biology teachers had done their best, but Lance had never been particularly interested, and he had usually found some way to get out of attending the dissection labs, once by barfing on the teacher's shoes. He knew that the Human brain weighed roughly two to three pounds, was full of soggy, wrinkly neurons, and that his cousin Carlos loved making jell-o versions as Halloween decorations, which he would then wander around savaging while wearing his zombie costume. Not helpful. On the other hand, he'd read somewhere that the brain was mostly water, and that the Human body was roughly sixty percent water, and not just any water at that. Weirdly enough, his own fluid content was more like seawater than anything else...

_Oh,_ he thought,  _the sea. Think_ tides...

The strength of the tides, that could pull mountains down if given enough time, or haul centuries-old wrecks up from the seafloor and deposit them up on the beach with the rest of mankind's garbage. It was amazing what could wash up on the shore after a really good storm. Lance took a deep breath, remembering his last trip to the beach, not long before enrolling in Galaxy Garrison. They'd gone at dawn, just at high tide, and he'd felt the power of the ocean in every rolling wave.

_Yes,_ said the Lion, and he smelled sea salt and felt the cool, careless breath of a million miles of ocean. Things that would eventually evolve into Humans had been born from the ocean, and their descendants remembered their roots in their blood. Lance took another deep breath and let it out slowly, hissing it through his teeth like the sound of a wave breaking. A similar wave went through the pocket ocean contained inside Hunk's skull, and the barbed filaments of the implant were swept just the tiniest fraction of an inch backwards. Encouraged, Lance continued to breathe slowly in and out, rolling the waves that both his and Hunk's body remembered, using the force of that great mother ocean to rid itself of the unwanted trash that some creep had left behind. 

It took mere minutes. It took years. It took however long it took for the last limp, prickly thread to be eased out, to flop wetly to the floor in a tiny puddle of cerebrospinal fluid. Lance made one final effort to run a quick wave of cleansing energy through the tissues, close up the hole in Hunk's skull, and heal the tiny entry wound, but he just didn't have the energy to grow the hair back in as well. Exhausted, he slumped against the wall, too weary to celebrate. He was pretty sure that he'd done it right, he was positive that all that swooshing around hadn't hurt Hunk's gray matter, but he wouldn't know for sure until--

Hunk stirred and let out a sticky groan, pushing himself up with an effort. “Whoa,” he said blearily. “What happened? My head feels like someone cleaned it out with a bottle-brush. Huh. And my mouth tastes salty. Why do I taste sea salt?”

“Hunk?” Lance said.

“Yeah?” Hunk replied, licking his lips curiously.

“ _Hunk!”_ Lance lunged forward and wrapped his arms around Hunk's shoulders. “Are you okay? You're not a zombie this time, right? How's your memory? Can you remember what I gave you for your last birthday? Can you wiggle your toes? How about your fingers? Do you still remember the recipe for Grandma's flan? How many fingers am I holding up? You don't have synesthesia or anything, right? Can you still tell right from left? Are you numb anywhere? Can you still focus both eyes okay? You're not blind or seeing double, right? Do you want to eat brains right now, or, or, obey the evil commands of some super evil agents of an evil secret organization or anything, or--?”

Hunk's arms wrapped around him in the usual wonderful Hunk-hug that he had come to know and adore. “Easy, buddy, you're freaking out. Whoa, and there's frost all over your armor. Cripes, that's cold. What happened? I can remember you hitting the ejector button, and then there was a bright flash, and now I'm waking up here with my hair in my eyes. Um. And I'm sitting in a circle of frost with a me-shaped print in it. Did you have to do something big, and why is the back of my head chilly?”

“One last question!” Lance demanded, waggling a finger. “What is the difference between cheddar and American cheese?”

Hunk gave him an offended look. “Everything. And now I have to smack you for calling that stuff 'cheese', which strictly speaking, it isn't. You did do something big.”

Lance dissolved into weak giggles, drunk on relief that his best friend wasn't a brain-dead vegetable. “Big? Big? Hunk, I'll have you know that I've just performed brain surgery with magic, pal. I made the inside of your head think that it was an ocean.”

Hunk stuck a finger into his ear and wiggled it, as if trying to get water out. “That explains why it feels like a seagull's nest in there. Why'd you do that?”

Lance picked something up off of the floor. “Because this was in there, and it turned you into a zombie slave. Say 'thank you, Lance'.”

Hunk viewed the limp, dripping, dead-jellyfish shape of the implant with revulsion. “Thank you, Lance. Oh, gross, that was in my actual head?”

“Yeah. We're in a Ghamparva base right now, and anything that isn't one of them has one of these.” Lance shuddered and dropped the thing with an ugly little _splat_ onto the the floor. “We're gonna have to get all those slaves and prisoners out of here, Hunk, and then get all of _those_ out of them, and I really, really don't want to do it alone again. I just don't have enough sparkles left.”

There wasn't much light in the room, but what there was glinted prettily over the frost crystals coating Lance's backplate. “I dunno, you're glittering pretty well from where I'm sitting. Eat something, will you? You always get a little weird when you've missed lunch, and you've just blown a load of energy.”

Lance groaned. His stomach was telling him in no uncertain terms that Hunk had a point. “I don't have anything.”

Hunk frowned. “What?”

“I didn't bring my lunchbox,” Lance confessed. “I thought we'd get lunch at the Mall.”

Hunk sighed. “Lance, what have I told you about leaving the Castle without snacks? Here, let me give you—hey! Where's my armor?”

“That's another problem,” Lance said, flopping back against the wall. “Zombie slave, right? Zombie slaves don't get nice armor.”

Hunk looked down at the ragged, dull-purple smock that he'd been given. “Got that right. Yuck. Well, it's still got some use.” Hunk ripped off a piece of cheap fabric and wrapped his implant up in it. “The others will want a look at this. For now, we've got to get to the kitchen and feed you before you collapse.”

“I love you, Hunk,” Lance whimpered, wincing at a hunger pang. “Let's get out of here.”

Easier said than done, they found out soon afterward. His reserves drained, Lance could no longer plot out the Station's floor plan by its moisture content, and every inch of the place was so steeped in evil that Hunk found it extremely uncomfortable to do more than get the surveillance systems to ignore them. As a result, they got lost in the labyrinthine halls very quickly. As if that wasn't bad enough, the place was full of Ghamparva, all of them obviously on the hunt. Neither Hunk nor Lance wanted to tangle with any of them; their long association with the Blade of Marmora had taught them to judge the skill of a warrior by how he moved, and these people moved like sharks. They flowed along silently through the halls, eyes cold and calculating, carrying themselves with the unique grace of highly-trained martial artists. They considered heading back into the service tunnels, but discarded the whole idea when they saw something terrible coming out of one of them. It had once been a normal person, smallish, slender, and spotty; it was now a knife salesman's nightmare of bladed limbs and armor plate, with gunscope eyes and the mechanical gait of a large predatory insect. The creature touched a control that opened another grid high on the wall and sprang inside, a leap of at least eight feet—effortlessly—and slipped inside like a spider into a crack.

“Not gonna fight that thing,” Lance said, sidling away from that grid with Hunk right behind him. “They've probably got a bunch more where that one came from, and I'm not gonna fight any of them right now.”

Hunk wasn't going to argue. “Yeah. You know, you listen to Keith's mom and the other Blades telling stories, and you think 'wow, they've gotta be exaggerating a little', 'cause people always exaggerate war stories, right? And then things like that remind you that they're professional spooks who can't afford to do anything except tell it like it is. And then you realize that they're just telling you about the times where they won. Even they don't like to talk about the ones where they didn't.”

“Yeah,” Lance said, knowing that in a lot of cases, they didn't survive to talk about the failures. His belly twisted painfully, and not just from hunger. “C'mon, c'mon, _come on,_ where's the cafeteria in this place? These creeps have to eat sometime. They can't just sort of subsist off of their own evil or anything, or maybe turn into vampires. Evil purple werewolf vampires. Holy crow, I wish I hadn't thought of that.”

Hunk patted him comfortingly on the back. “Galra don't have legends about undead monsters.”

“Really?” Lance asked, peeking carefully around a corner.

“I asked Zaianne once,” Hunk said, looking up suspiciously at a nearby ventilation grid. “She says that Kuphorosk takes his job seriously, and the only spirits allowed to hang around have to ask him for a special permit. You know, like Clarence and Jasca's ghosts. Ooh.”

Hunk had sagged against the wall, and was grimacing and rubbing at the back of his head. Lance felt a spike of icy terror run through him, and his own problems were forgotten for the moment. “Are you okay?”

“Ugh. Yeah. Gimme a minute.” Hunk took a deep breath and straightened up. “Head hurts some. I had to warn off one of those cyborg things in the tunnels just now, and it was harder than it should've been.”

Lance glanced at the little bundled-up brain implant that Hunk had tied to his smock. “Don't push it, okay? I patched you up, but I'm not used to doing brains. And you leaked a little when I was getting it out.”

“Probably leaked a little while they were putting it in, too,” Hunk grunted. “Ow. I'm going to need a snack, too. And maybe a—oops!”

A Ghamparva had just rounded the corner, and nearly tripped over them. Almost literally—the Galra was nearly twice Lance's height and half again as broad as Hunk, and he uttered a roar of triumph as he reached for them. Hunk reacted instinctively with something he'd learned from Zaianne, dropping to one knee and aiming a solid punch at a particular portion of the man's anatomy in a move that would have gotten him tossed out of every reputable boxing ring in America, and in most other countries as well. Possibly on most other planets, too. The Ghamparva's breath whooshed out in an agonized little squeak, and he folded up like a deckchair as the two Paladins beat a hasty retreat.

When they came to a gasping halt at an empty intersection, Lance wheezed out, “Hunk, you just nut-punched a Ghamparva. Does that equal Pidge biting a Blade?”

Hunk vented a breathless laugh. “We'll ask Zaianne later. Oh, look out, someone's coming.”

Lance whirled around and pulled out his bayard, looking around frantically for the foe. To his surprise, he heard two sets of footsteps, and a nervous voice that he'd heard only a little while ago.

“Think we lost it, Sarge?” a young and gullible soldier asked.

“Can't be sure of it, boy,” the gravelly voice of the sergeant replied. “They're tricky things. I don't care if the Captain says I'm being an idiot, I know what I heard! If they ain't careful, they'll know the horror of those monsters themselves, soon enough.”

“Maybe the hunter-killer units will get it, Sarge,” the soldier said hopefully.

Sarge grunted doubtfully. “If it's got one of the little ones with it, not _quarfek_ likely. They'll have the housings off and be shoulder-deep in the central processing units before you can blink twice, and then they'll have their own murder-slaves to set on us. They got into the Sentries we had, back on their homeworld, and I still wake up screaming sometimes.”

Hunk had the interesting experience of watching several conflicting emotions pass over Lance's face, settling upon one that Hunk knew well; his friend was up to something that would, if they were still on Earth, earn him a smack on the bottom from his mom.

Lance closed his eyes and drew in a deep, calming breath, then rattled his armored fingertips on the wall in a way that made a sound like the footsteps of at least two small animals. In a voice worthy of the Death of Rats, Lance then uttered a chilling _**“Squeeeeeak!”**_ and added a couple of thinner, higher chirps as well.

“Three of 'em!” Sarge howled, his voice dopplering back down the hall as they fled. “Three! _We're all doomed!”_

“ _Aaaaaagh!”_ the younger man shrieked, “Run, Sarge, run!”

Lance clasped his hands as if in prayer.  _“Lo siento, Mama...”_

Hunk listened to Lance's plea for maternal forgiveness in bemusement. “Are you feeling okay, Lance?”

“No,” Lance growled. “Nevertheless, I am a mouse, and I will sparkle in my own way.”

“Can you sparkle really quickly?” Hunk asked, pointing off to the right. “I think they found that guy I hit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *shambles around in proper synthetic zombie-like product style* Coooooommeeeeeents....


	22. Releasing The Kraken...After Lunch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was edited sideways. No, really. My word program somehow ended up thinking the entire chapter was actually in Spanish, and thus EVERY WORD was misspelled. So more time was spent figuring out how to tell the thing that English actually exists than anything else. @_@

Chapter 22: Releasing the Kraken... After Lunch

There was a great deal of running and hiding after that, which was a terrible strain on both of them. The halls seemed to blur together in Lance's mind, and his sweat-stung eyes kept losing focus. The Ghamparva were playing with them now, herding them from this end of the station to that, and he could guess why. Partially, it was to wear them down enough so that they wouldn't be able to spring any aetheric surprises on them. The other reason was that they were enjoying this too much to end it quickly. As well they might—all of them had shield generators built into their uniforms that deflected the bursts from Lance's bayard, and Hunk had no weapons. Eventually, Hunk had no choice but to grit his teeth and seal every blast door within a hundred-yard radius, an effort that left him groaning, and the both of them in regrettably familiar territory. Lance realized with a jolt of outrage that they'd come back to the same set of rooms where he'd found Hunk.

“Oh, not cool!” he burst out angrily, waving his arms at the wide, blank doors. “We can't get anywhere like this! We can't get into the walls, 'cause of the killbots, and we can't use the halls, 'cause of those creeps! And I need a sandwich right now, and I don't even know where the sandwich-making facilities are, or even if Galra ever invented sandwiches! Hunk, are you okay?”

Hunk muttered something under his breath, and Lance felt a grass-scented breeze blow through him. It helped, but not much, although it allowed Hunk to sigh in relief and straighten up. “Gonna need some down-time sooner or later,” Hunk said. “And two sandwiches. Make that three. Maybe four. We're pretty well stuck, Lance.”

“Are you sure that you can't, y'know, sort of work your mojo on the station?” Lance asked, a little desperately. “Just to find out where things are?”

Hunk shook his head, and winced at a twinge from the base of his skull. “Not hardly. Not right now, anyway. Those Ghamparva guys have gotten evil all over this place, years and years of it, and it's like handling toxic waste. I'm not touching anything more until I've got Keith or Pidge to help me burn it off. I've already had a hole in my head. With evil in it. I don't need them poisoning me, too.”

Lance groaned. “And I'm no good at hacking systems. We need to find the kitchen, and your armor, and call for help, and find some way not to get dead. How are we going to find all of that?”

Both of them jumped at the low voice that insinuated itself through the viewslit in the cell door behind them. “I may be able to help you with that.”

“Who?” Lance blurted.

“How?” Hunk asked.

“Me,” the voice said with an odd little chortle that did nothing to settle their nerves. “And getting me out of here. If you can. Can you? I've been here for a long time, and I'm bored.”

Hunk and Lance glanced at each other nervously. Whoever was in that cell sounded like he'd taken... damage. Then again, he was the first person they'd met here who probably wasn't either evil or a mind-controlled zombie. Still...

“How'd you get in there?” Hunk asked.

There was a sigh from behind the door. “I was trying to infiltrate this place. I managed to get in, that wasn't any trouble. It was the getting-out-before-they-caught-me part that didn't work out so well. It happens.”

“Yeah, we found that out the hard way, too.” Lance rubbed thoughtfully at his chin. “You wouldn't happen to be a Blade of Marmora, would you?”

The voice was silent for a moment before answering, and when it did, it was in a mutter. “This sounds wrong. Your voices aren't Galra, you sound too young to be even the newest of recruits, and the Ghamparva don't admit aliens into their ranks. They won't even accept mongrels. From the sound of you, you aren't being controlled or otherwise forced to ask me that, and they've tried that tactic on me already. On the other hand, the Blades don't accept aliens either, so you aren't here to rescue me. Hmm. Well, I shall tell the truth here, because my captors already know it. Yes, I am. You're friendly with my colleagues, I should hope.”

“Yeah, we're buddies,” Hunk said. “We work with them all the time, and they've been a real help. Pidge bit one guy once, even. That was Chesk, and he was pretty cool about it.”

The mysterious voice vented a faint puff of amusement. “Interesting. And have you seen our leader's face?”

“Yeah?” Lance said, confused by this odd question.

“Tell me what is odd about it.”

Perplexed, Lance blinked at the blank view-slit. “Um... well, he's white from nose to chin, he's got red markings on his forehead and a big scar over one eye, and a long braid that goes white halfway down. Keith says that he's got some Simadhi in him, and he looks like a grumpy panther when he's angry. He doesn't have much of a sense of humor, either.”

Another thoughtful silence. “No, he does not. Who are you?”

“I'm Lance, and I've got Hunk with me. We're Paladins of Voltron,” Lance replied proudly.

“Ah.” Once again, the voice took a moment to consider that. “That would explain some things. A lot of things. Someone has actually managed to find that wretched device, and after so long... yes, that would do it.”

Hunk stared at the empty viewslit. “How long have you been here? We've been fighting evil for... oh, wow, it has to be at least three years now.”

The voice chuckled. “At least three years, then, and probably more. The Ghamparva have kept me in a stasis tank for most of that time, and they pull me out whenever they don't have anything better to do. I can't think why. Any secrets that I might have are completely stale by now. Hah. Breaking my spirit is probably someone's matter of pride at the moment, or perhaps someone's scientific oddity. Probably the latter. I'm a very odd bit of science, all right. Come on in, Paladins, I'm lonely for people who won't try to menace me.”

Hunk looked at the door, gritted his teeth, and nudged the circuitry into complying. It beeped softly, and the door slid open with the customary ominous hiss. It was dim inside the cell as was so often the case in a Galra installation, but they could see the prisoner clearly enough. Unusually for a Blade, he was smallish and very lean, no taller than Shiro and as sleekly muscled as a wildcat. He was also stark naked, and very dark-furred; aside from a light blue-roan frosting over his shoulders, back, and hips, he might as well have been completely black. He had been strapped spread-eagle to a table, and someone had tied a blindfold over his eyes. Other than that, he seemed to be entirely unharmed. That was very strange, when one considered what the Ghamparva usually did to their captives.

Despite the blindfold, he was staring right at them, an expression of vague wonder on his face. “I can see you,” he whispered. “Oh, now I can see you. Ocean. Earth. Pure. I can see the Lions. Such power. No wonder he wants them, as power-mad as he is. What would it be like to be a part of that, and then be _apart_ from that... ye gods, the loss must have nearly killed him.”

Hunk stared at him. “Are... are you okay? They didn't do anything weird to your brain, did they?”

The Galra vented a black laugh. “I was born mad, if you can call being decanted from a cloning tank 'born'. I'm a vat's bastard, Paladin, and something of a lab reject. I used to think that my designation number was a pretty name, up until the Blades stole me and gave me a better one. It's Kevaah, which is a name full of magic; I turned into a person when they gave it to me. There are a few things wrong with me, all right. Your blue friend will be able to tell you all about it.”

Lance blinked. “You can see what I can do?”

“Oh, yes. It's fairly common. Blue usually means healing, except when it doesn't. They're all like that. Yes and no, life and death, one and zero, light and dark, it's like a coin of crystal, each side with a thousand facets, and an edge between them that everyone looks for but can never... quite... find. The straight and narrow way, yes, but the facets are so much more beautiful. Drat, there I go again. I think that they gave me a larger dose than usual. See for yourself, Paladin.”

Lance stepped forward and laid a hand gingerly on the plush-furred chest while Kevaah smiled dreamily up at him. Even as drained as Lance was, it did not take long at all for him to realize that the man had been telling the truth. Kevaah's body was _seething_ with strange activity; his entire nervous system looked like a burning fireworks factory, his blood was awash with bizarre chemicals, and his immune system was locked in permanent overdrive. He should have been in pain. He should have been in agony _,_ but that particular center in his brain was busy with something else entirely. Several other nodes in his brain were doing non-standard things, as a matter of fact, and some of his organs were a little odd as well; the livers in particular were larger than was normal, and were churning out some very unusual chemical combinations. The only really comprehensible problem at the moment was a sort of overall murkiness that Lance had never seen before, and was by no means natural.

“Holy crow, you're all put together sideways. What is that?” he asked. “There's some sort of... stuff... all over everything, like an oil slick.”

Kevaah nodded. “It's an addictive poison, or at least it's supposed to be. They call it Formula #43, which is terribly unimaginative of them, don't you think? The idea is that it builds up in the tissues, the body gets used to it, and becomes dependent upon it. In theory, if I don't get regular doses I'll go into seizures, then convulsions, and then massive organ failure, and then drop dead. They're a bit out of luck, there. My livers are very, very good at filtering out poisons, I heal very quickly, and I can't feel pain. They keep trying new versions of the stuff on me, even though all it does is make me a little silly. It's driving them mad. None of the usual interrogation techniques work, and if they try starving me into submission or deny me water or air for long enough, I go dormant. They have to be very careful about waking me back up, too, because I wake up _angry.”_

Hunk humphed, looking interested. “Have they tried to add or remove anything?”

“ _Hunk!”_ Lance yelped, “That's disgusting!”

“Yes,” Kevaah sighed, ignoring Lance's protest. “Anything implanted is rejected instantly, and often with some force. Anything removed grows back, and very quickly. Finding that out was very tedious. Don't worry about the blindfold, that's just pique on their part. They know that I don't like it, so they keep it on. The color of my eyes may make them nervous, too. It's a little unusual. I've always liked it.”

“Can't be worse than anything we've already seen,” Lance said, reaching for the band of cloth and pulling it loose. We've seen people with lots of eyes, or none at all, and... whoa.”

Kevaah had opened eyes of luminous orange, like molten gold, like a winter sun setting. Shiro had told them about Someone Else who had eyes like that. Hunk deactivated the restraints and handed him a smock that he'd found folded up nearby. “Yeah, whoever cooked up your genes had somebody in mind, all right. So long as you don't go crazy and start chewing on the furniture, I figure that we can work together. Super-soldier program, right? I'm surprised that Haggar didn't want a piece of you.”

Kevaah grunted in distaste and sat up, sliding the smock on over his head as he did so. “Haggar knows nothing of it, or of me or my series, and the Ghamparva have gone to great lengths to keep it that way. It's the Druids, you see. Those things make them very nervous indeed, being the one sort of creature that they cannot fight effectively. There have been numerous attempts to breed up a sort of Galra that can match or exceed them, without much success. My creators had some hope for my series, but that proved to be unfounded. If we manage to escape, I'll tell you more.”

“Sounds good to me,” Lance said, glancing worriedly at the hall outside. “But we've gotta find a way to get everyone else out of here, too. I really, really, don't want to leave anyone behind. Not here.”

Kevaah flowed to his feet in one long, fluid motion and rubbed absently at his wrists. “That's good. I know where the escape pods are. You smell nice. What have you been eating?”

“Huh?” Lance asked, surprised at this odd change of subject, and recalled that breakfast hadn't been all that long ago, despite what his stomach was telling him. “Sausages, and umsihl hash, and some other things that I could do with a lot more of right now. Please tell me that you know the way to the kitchen.”

Kevaah gave him an interested look. “I do. It's a reasonably decent kitchen. A little tricky to rig the oven to explode, but worth the effort. This way.”

They followed him with a sort of wary hopefulness; mad he might have been, but he traversed the station's halls as easily as any of the residents, and could obviously see things that they couldn't. He stopped at one point and pulled up a disguised floor panel that even Nasty wouldn't have been able to spot, revealing a narrow, steep, spiral staircase. Kevaah trotted downward without hesitation, and they had little choice but to follow him.

“Cool,” Hunk puffed, noticing that this hidden stairwell allowed access to a lot of very important power mains. “Do the Ghamparva know this is here?”

“Oh, yes,” Kevaah's soft, dry voice replied. “They just don't think about it much. Out of sight, out of mind, out of trouble until trouble comes looking for them... hah. And it's going to. I can feel it. Chaos bends itself around this place even as we speak, and reaches for its natural prey—the complacent, the hapless, and the deserving. It follows the scent of such as you and I, in much the same way that soldiers will follow a truly bad commander.”

Lance gave the back of the strange Blade's head a suspicious look. “Because it has to?”

Kevaah flashed him a fanged grin. “No. Out of curiosity and morbid fascination. It's the sergeants who do all the real on-the-job thinking, anyway. Aha, smell that? We're close.”

“I can't smell anything,” Lance admitted.

“I can,” Hunk said disapprovingly. “Somewhere, someone has just added too much glamit sauce... and the pan's too hot, too. Oh, yuck, and he's using thrap oil.”

Lance sniffed the air again, and this time he could smell the faint acrid odor of overheated thrap oil, which smelled a little like synth-canola and made him think of the food carts that showed up during the big festivals back home, and it was a measure of how hungry he was that he wanted to eat all of whatever was being fried right now. “What I wouldn't give for a churro right now,” he groaned, half to himself. “I want all the churros, and the funnel cakes, but mostly churros. Mom makes them for special treats, and she brushes them with a little honey before they go into the fryer... oh great, now I'm craving honey.”

It was Kevaah's turn to glance back quizzically at Lance. “Is he mad, too?”

Hunk shook his head. “Nah. He's just done a bunch of hard magic and needs to eat. He gets a little weird when his blood sugar drops, is all.”

“Honey is _awesome,”_ Lance continued earnestly. “It's made by bees, which are the best pollinators on the planet. Seriously, the whole world would starve without those little guys, and everybody loves honey so much that bad guys counterfeit it all the time, usually with corn syrup. Yuck. You can always tell that you've got a fake if there's an expiration date on the jar, 'cause honey doesn't spoil. Really! They've found jars that were still good in four-thousand-year-old tombs in Egypt, but you can't eat ancient artifacts, 'cause that's rude. Oooh, and bees are awesome too, and a little bit impossible because _tienen la forma incorrecta de volar como lo hacen...”_

“What?” Kevaah asked.

Hunk shook his head worriedly as Lance continued to babble nervously in his native Cuban. “Just get us to that kitchen as fast as you can. He won't stop until I get a plate in front of him, and the best thing you can do to help is stay by him and look interested.”

“What is he saying?” Kevaah asked curiously.

“That bees shouldn't be able to fly, but they do because they create tiny vortexes every time they flap their wings,” Hunk replied. “It's true, we've got tiny-tornado-powered stinging insects at home. Just don't get him started on the subject of sharks or he'll keep talking while he eats, and that's not a pretty sight.”

Kevaah, who knew a thing or two about hunger-induced erratic thinking himself, wisely picked up the pace. They came out of the stairwell from behind a wall panel into another hall that was empty of people but full of the smells of cooking, and Lance stopped talking and took the lead with glinting eyes and a look of determination on his face that was frightening to behold. He followed his nose into what was obviously a lunchroom, and then kicked open the kitchen door, brandishing his bayard. “Hand over the churros and no one gets hurt!” he shouted, only to stare in disappointment at the cook, which ignored him.

It was mechanical, after all, not even a cyborg, and it had been specifically designed to ignore dissatisfied customers and other silly people. Hunk poked his head through the doorway, espied the robot, and made an exasperated sound.

“Seriously? A chef 'bot? It even looks like the same model that Sal had.” Hunk said, approaching the thing. “These are okay if you're after junky fast food, but they need a lot of maintenance and they conk out without warning. Just wow, guys. I'm starting to wonder if Galra are so cranky all the time because they're lousy cooks, or something.”

Hunk found the machine's off switch and shoved it into a nearby storage closet, dumped out the panful of alleged food, then took a look around. “Okay, what do we have to work with here? A decent cooking range, flash-bake oven, blast-chiller, plenty of preparation surfaces, nice big cabinets, big fridges... huh. And food-goo dispensers?”

“Nutrient gels,” Kevaah supplied, nudging Lance toward a table in the rear of the room, where, presumably, roots were peeled by recruits that had misbehaved, some things being universal. “Staple fare for the common soldiers.”

Hunk pulled a saucer out of a cabinet and took a sample from one dispenser. “Looks like you guys learned a few things from the Alteans before Zarkon blew them up. They've got something a lot like this, only it's green or pink instead of purple. Of course your stuff is purple, everything you guys make is purple, and the Altean stuff is sort of edible if you're hungry enough, and— _yuck!”_

Lance watched despondently as Hunk dropped the offending goop into the waste disposal unit. “That bad, huh?”

Hunk made a face. “Now I know why Ghamparva are evil. They eat it every day for breakfast.”

Kevaah smiled. “The worse the food, the stronger the army, or so the Quartermasters used to tell me.”

“Lies,” Hunk scoffed. “If that was true, Zarkon would own the whole universe and half of the next one by now. I don't get it, the Ghamparva fly ships that cost more than it does to build a city, and they're eating this crud? Well, I suppose that they had to save a buck somewhere. Help me look for a pantry, guys, the officers have to have a stash of the good stuff. They always do.”

A little searching produced several cabinets and cupboards of treats, and when Lance leaned on the wall in just the right place, a hidden pantry opened in a suspiciously blank section, revealing a treasure trove that made Hunk's eyes light up. Without further ado, he grabbed an armload of things that he could run up fast and easy and got to work. Even in the throes of famishment, Lance knew better than to approach the master cook while he was busy, and sat fidgeting at the table until Hunk asked Kevaah to get him a platter. Kevaah managed to find a large oval dish made from recycled hullplate, which Hunk filled up with what looked like crisp-fried paradise to Lance's eager eyes.

“Okay, here you go,” Hunk said, carrying it over to the table, “It's not churros, but it'll do for—yow!”

Lance had snatched it out of his hands so fast that Hunk had to count his fingers to make sure that he still had them all. From the way that his teammate was gobbling down the food, Hunk knew that neither he nor their new friend would get any of it. “Warn a guy, will you? Sheesh. You want some too, Kevaah?”

Kevaah went very still, his eyes avid and more than a little feral. “I've had nothing but tasteless pap for more than three years, and much of that was full of poisons and experimental drugs. Do the math.”

“Gotcha. Give me a minute.”

A second platter was filled up with food, and Hunk observed that Kevaah had a very healthy appetite. So healthy, in fact, that if he didn't run up another batch of cosmic slumgullion, the man was likely to eat the plate as well. Oops, and Lance was already trying to do just that. Oh, well, back to the cutting board.

Hunk had to refill their plates twice before he could get any food for himself, but that was all right. He was able to eat in peace while the other two sat and digested, and all of them felt the better for the quiet time. Something occurred to him while he was finishing up his meal, and he once again started digging around in the secret pantry for certain ingredients. Lance burped happily and asked, “What are you looking for?”

Hunk pulled out a sack of nuts with a triumphant _hah_ and replied, “Just gonna run up some snacks, just in case we have to do something big again. Looks like we've got enough of the right stuff here to make something almost like Modhri's energy bars. Not as good of course, even the Ghamparva can't just go down to Zampedri and get the proper ingredients, but close enough.”

Kevaah gave him a quizzical look. “Ghamparva go where they please. Why not Zampedri?”

“Dragons,” Lance said, waving his fork at the dark-furred Galra. “The place is hard to find and the system's full of weird anomalies, but mostly Here There Be Dragons. They don't like having strangers getting evil all over the place, and since they're seriously big and spiky and blaster-proof, they make the rules. It's a really nice place, though, with all sorts of good things growing there. Lizenne's got a nice little piece of it in her ship, and sometimes takes us hunting and gathering in there.”

“That's fun,” Hunk said, mixing up a big bowl of chunky dough. “I like gathering more than hunting, especially when the berry thickets are ready for picking, or when there's a flush of those little blue mushrooms. Modhri really likes those, and I wanted to try them in an omelet, but Lizenne says that you have to eat them raw. Heating them up too much makes them do some weird chemical things, and you wind up hallucinating for the rest of the day. I'm thinking maybe a salad next time, with lots of red vegetables, and maybe some fried almost-chicken chopped into it. Anyway, the planet's been off-limits to evil alien invaders for just about ever, so the Empire pretends that it isn't there.”

“Oh,” Kevaah said, an odd expression flickering over his face; Lance wasn't sure, but it looked like envy for a moment there.

They watched as Hunk mashed his mixture out flat in a baking sheet, cut it into neat strips, shoved it into the flash-oven for a minute or two, and then pulled out the steaming, fragrant bars. A few seconds in the blast chiller cooled them down enough to wrap up in a packet, but not before Hunk dangled one in front of Lance. This time, at least, he didn't have to worry about losing his fingers. “Tell me what you think,” Hunk said.

Lance took a bite, chewing thoughtfully, and then snapping the bar in half. “It's not Modhri's, but it's good. What do you think, Kevaah?”

Kevaah took his half of the bar with a peculiar reluctance, as if no one had ever bounced an experimental recipe off of him before, or had kept him on anything other than a strict diet. He took a careful nibble, crunching the nuts and dried berries between sharp teeth thoughtfully before replying. “It's very good. Too good, almost.”

Hunk blinked at him. “What do you mean by that?”

Kevaah handed the bar back to him. “I will tell you a secret, Paladin. During the earliest part of my life, my keepers treated me like an animal, and trained me for life as a hunting beast as if I were nothing more than a bharvet-hound with thumbs and a voice. The woman to whom the Blades gave me in the hopes that she'd be able to civilize me used some of the same techniques to ease me into personhood, and since my capture the Ghamparva have treated me like a thing. That treatment, however kindly or cruel, has left something of an impression on me. Give me a piece of that for now, and reserve the rest to tidbit me with when I've done a task well, or to attract my attention if it starts to wander. I am impulsive and easily distracted, which is how I wound up in this mess in the first place. Got that?”

“Got it,” Hunk said, breaking off a piece and flipping it into Kevaah's hand. “We had a handyman once with a background sort of like that, and Mom used to keep a big jar of homemade candies around to keep him happy. He'd do anything for her fudge and she loved making it, so it all worked out. You just eat that, and I'll try not to pat your head and call you a good boy.”

“Thank you,” Kevaah said, munching appreciatively on the chunk of fresh granola, “although I probably wouldn't mind that too much. My foster mother did that sometimes, and it was a pleasant thing. No one else has ever quite dared to try it. This food is good. I might let you pet me for another piece, at that.”

Hunk snorted a brief laugh and broke off a piece for himself. “Thanks. Well, we've had a good lunch, but no way am I going to let the Ghamparva have us for dinner. Tell you what; you help us find my armor and bayard, find the communications room, call for help, and then get all the prisoners out of this hellhole, and I'll make you a dinner so good that you'll let me rub your fuzzy tummy.”

Kevaah laughed. “Tempting! Very tempting. Nobody's done that to me since I was very new. I think that I like you. One thing, though.”

“If we can do it, sure,” Lance said.

Kevaah nodded gravely, orange-gold eyes glinting. “Find my blade. It was a gift from my foster-mother, and the one thing that was truly mine. One of my captors stole it, the _chiraga-vacht pozzamt,_ and I want it back.”

“If I see it, I'll grab it for you,” Lance said, and jerked a thumb at the door. “Let's get going. Should we get Hunk's armor first, or call for help?”

“Armor first,” Hunk said firmly, tugging at the collar of his suit with a disapproving finger. “Not only does this getup itch, but I've got a call frequency saved in my suit's onboard computer that'll alert any Ghost Fleet ship in the area if we can get to the communications office. Even if they don't want to tangle with Ghamparva, they can call in people who do. The Blades have hated these guys since forever, right? And Yantilee doesn't like them much, either. Them, the Castle, and the _Chimera_ should be able to put a real dent in this place.”

“Sound thinking,” Kevaah opined. “I know where the confiscated-items storage is, as well as the communications center.”

Lance frowned at him. “How? If you know where everything is in here, why haven't you escaped yet?”

“Not for lack of trying, I assure you, and many Ghamparva have died to keep me here.” Kevaah's expression turned hard and cold, and Lance began to get an inkling of just how dangerous the man sitting across from him actually was. “A great many of them, I am pleased to say. I know this place well because a fellow Blade discovered and infiltrated it, mapping it out in great detail, and sending us that map. Unfortunately, she was not able to escape capture. There were those among the Order that valued her enough to attempt a rescue, a number that included myself. We were not successful. Further attempts to access this base were not possible, because it is a mobile base, and it left its original location shortly after we were captured. I have no idea where in space we are at this time, and I hope that this 'Ghost Fleet' of yours is potent enough to prevent it from leaving again.”

Lance thought about the mighty _Osric's Quandary,_ and Clarence, and Jasca. “Some of them, and your people have told them a lot about Ghamparva. They'll send people who can handle it, and if we can get the Lions in, this place is toast.”

“I can only hope,” Kevaah said lightly, although his eyes were like chips of sardonyx. “I would see every one of our captors dead at my feet, if at all possible. Let us go and make that happen.”

Hunk finished wrapping up the granola bars with a stern look in Kevaah's direction. “I'd rather keep the carnage to a minimum. After all, we might be able to capture the base and clean it up some, then maybe Pidge and I can add it to the team like we did with Jasca. She and Clarence both have official ghosts, but I don't want anyone who's been here for a while haunting this place. Guardian spirits are one thing, but I'm allergic to poltergeists, and I don't know if we're up to doing an exorcism on a whole space habitat... ow.”

Lance stood up so fast that he nearly knocked over his chair. “You okay?”

Hunk rubbed at his forehead. “Headache. Like I've got a hedgehog right behind my eyes.”

“Hold still, I'll take care of that,” Lance said; he'd put an awful lot of work into preserving Hunk's gray matter intact and didn't want it leaking.

Kevaah watched with considerable interest, although his eyes did not focus on the Paladins themselves. Eventually, he asked, “What's a poltergeist?”

Lance let out a long breath that steamed on the comparatively much warmer air, and a nearby cabinet frosted over. “It's German. It means a ghost that makes spooky noises and throws stuff.”

Hunk shivered. “Mostly tantrums. Some of them are just creepy, but others are really dangerous. The Castle technically had one once and it nearly ran us all into a star, but that was mostly a Balmeran crystal corrupted with bad magic. That was a bad day. Thanks, Lance.”

Lance murmured a distracted _de nada_ and stole another granola bar.

The Ghamparva seemed to have realized by now that their quarry had vanished into some other level, and search parties had been sent out on an all-level sweep to hunt for them, and not one that was particularly successful. This seemed to confuse Kevaah somewhat, and he frowned at one party that trotted by their hiding place without ever noticing that they were there.

“They do not see us,” he said, sounding perplexed. “Every other time that I have gotten loose, they could see me. They toyed with me, and sent drones and slaves to wear me down.”

Lance winced at that. He might have mercy for implanted victims, but he knew very well from Zaianne's war stories that Blades couldn't afford that sort of thing, particularly not captured ones. “I don't like being watched while I'm sneaking, so I messed up a bunch of the wiring while I was moving through the service tunnels. I didn't know that it affected the cameras down here, too.”

“You didn't,” Hunk said. “I don't like being watched either, especially not by cyborg murder-spider guys, so I kind of made the sensors fuzz out. Those guys use some interesting rare-earth metals in the circuitry, so I blurred the lines a little. They can't see us electronically right now, or you either, Kevaah.”

Kevaah turned sharply to stare at him in surprise, his eyes focusing not on Hunk's face, but on something a little above his head. _“Metals-master,”_ he said in what might almost be an awed whisper. “My foster-mother once told me the tale of a legendary witch who could do that. I thought it was just a myth. But I am invisible to them now?”

“Unless somebody lays their own personal eyes on us, yeah. I can't hack other people's heads.” His eyebrows pinched with worry. “At least, I don't think that I can.”

Kevaah grinned. It was predatory, triumphant, and very frightening to see. “Now I _know_ that I like you. What a gift! It will be very useful.”

Lance gave him a suspicious, sidelong look. “Not going to say something like, 'pity the next fool that we encounter', or something?”

Kevaah sneered. “No. There can be no pitying a Ghamparva. By choosing to be such, they exempt themselves from all compassion forever, both in the giving and in the receiving. Come, the storage rooms are not far from here, and we need not hide any longer.”

Lance and Hunk exchanged a significant look and simultaneously vowed to keep their distance. Kevaah was now actively looking for trouble, and no doubt could dish it out in shiploads. On the other hand, there was only one of him, and quite a lot of Ghamparva. Hunk frowned sternly at their companion and rustled the packet of granola bars warningly. “Kevaah, be good. You'll want another one of these soon, right? No making a scene. These guys might be super space ninjas, but somebody's going to have a blaster around here, and I still don't have my armor on.”

Kevaah humphed, but smiled ironically and relaxed a little. “Very well, but if we are attacked, do not get in my way.”

“Wouldn't dream of it,” Lance assured him, peering cautiously around a corner. “Looks clear. Let's go.”

They made their way forward with all due caution, avoiding the implanted slaves wherever they could. Lance told them in brief terms about the one that had spotted them when he'd first found Hunk, and didn't really want to repeat the experience. Kevaah was in full agreement, at least; all of the Ghamparva's mind-controlled pets were wired for sound and video, and had preset programs that activated whenever they detected someone that shouldn't be there. Those could range from simple obstruction to insane rage, and it was impossible to tell which would happen before they were triggered.

This was amply demonstrated when one of the hunter-killer units bashed its way out of a ventilation duct right behind them. It shrilled, spread its bladed arms, and leaped at them; Lance, his nerves already strung as tight as harp strings, opened fire. The dreadful apparatus plowed into the floor minus a leg and half an arm, screeching in sharp bursts like a disaster siren. Before it could get up again, Kevaah seized it by what was probably the skull and tore the control unit out, sending unguessable fluids spraying all over the floor.

“Kevaah!” Lance blurted as the thing collapsed, twitching. “You killed it!”

“Yes?” Kevaah said, giving him a suspicious look. “It would have killed us.”

“Yeah, but--” Lance protested.

Hunk rested a hand on the wreckage for a moment, then straightened up and shook his head. “Forget it Lance. It's basically a meat machine. Whoever that guy was before, he was long gone before we ever got here. There's nothing that we could have done to bring him back.”

Lance might have protested further, but Kevaah looked sharply to his left and bared his teeth. “Dead or not, it has summoned its masters. Run!”

Whatever else one could say about the Ghamparva, they were quick on the uptake. They had reacted instantly to the killbot's signal, and what seemed to be the entire population of the station was pouring into their level. Service tunnel admits and ventilation grids slammed open as well, and killbots began to swarm out like ants from a disturbed nest. Lance's gut twisted at the sight of them, knowing that for each one of those hundreds of cyborgs to have been made, someone had been tortured and technically killed. Grimly, he kept himself between them and his unarmored teammates, firing shot after shot as they followed Kevaah down the seemingly endless halls, reminding himself each time that these things were the next best thing to mindless, that they weren't people anymore, and that ending them cleanly was a mercy. Even so, he could hear the last echoes of Akazia mocking him from the deep places in his memory; that choice, that simple and terrible choice—whether or not to let them go.

Kevaah, however, had no difficulty or hesitation in making that choice, and any killbot that came within arm's reach of him was soon a heap of sparking wreckage. The man was very strong for his size and had extraordinary reflexes, and he simply did not panic. When a scarred Ghamparva came roaring out of a side passage at them, he turned with an almost balletic movement and struck out with one hand; there was an ugly snap of breaking bone and a choking sound, a rattle as the enemy's sword hit the floor, and a very final thump when the Ghamparva dropped limply on top of it. Kevaah ran on, having barely broken stride. The two Paladins forbore to comment; they'd both seen that move before on the training deck, when watching Zaianne at practice. She had felled the gladiator drones just as easily. More Ghamparva followed that first one, and neither Lance nor Hunk had any more time to think, except to thank Keith's mother for the lessons she'd given them. Ghamparva did not fight as the common soldiery did, nor did they ever even consider the possibility of retreat.

Worse, someone in the station's central control had finally triangulated their location, and began using unfair tactics—blast doors began to slam down, blocking their path, forcing Kevaah to find alternate routes that inevitably led them into the thick of the enemy. Small teams at first, which were dealt with as quickly as possible, but they knew that they'd be facing larger groups soon.

Eventually, the two Humans had to stop to catch their breath, and staggered to a halt, wheezing painfully. Kevaah ran on further, too busy looking out for danger to notice that the others had fallen behind until he had gone past the next intersection. Surprised at finding himself alone, he stopped and turned to see them both standing some distance away.

“What are you doing?” Kevaah called to them.

Lance swallowed painfully, wishing for a drink and cursing himself once again for forgetting his lunchbox. “Sorry, be right there, just gotta get our wind back.”

Kevaah growled and started forward, but a blast door slammed down between them, heavy bolts slamming home in the frame. Lance spat a curse and ran over to try to force the door, but it was stuck solid.

“Hunk!” Lance said, slamming a fist into the heavy sheet of armor plate, “can you get this open?”

Hunk pressed a hand against the door, but a shout from nearby forestalled any action he might have taken; off to the right, another team of Ghamparva were closing fast. Lance ground his teeth and fired his bayard, only to see the bolt glance off of a force-shield that one of them carried. Growling, he fired again, this time at the ceiling, bringing down several meters of torn metal on their heads. Hunk bent down and laid his hand on the floor, and the heap of scrap became a thicket of jagged spikes. Not without a cost, unfortunately; Hunk jerked his hand away with a cry of disgust, shaking it as if the floor had bitten him.

“Bad juju?” Lance asked.

Hunk scraped his palm over his smock. “Seriously bad. They hunt people for fun on this level, and it's gotten right into the metal itself. I can't feel Kevaah anymore. Can you?”

Lance paused, concentrating. The wild, multicolored signature of the Blade had indeed gone, and was still going as a matter of fact, despite a number of ugly dark splashes left in his wake. “He's fine, but we won't be if we don't get out of here.”

Sure enough, there was angry shouting from down the hall, and something big and heavy bashed hard into Hunk's iron thicket. “Crud,” Hunk muttered. “We need some sort of directory. Wow, do I ever wish that the others were here.”

Lance shrugged. “Well, Kevaah said that the stolen-stuff storage was around here somewhere. We could just try some doors, I suppose.”

It was a good idea, or it would have been if the doors hadn't required a station ID to open them up. “No fair,” Lance grumped after the seventeenth impassable portal. “Hunk, are you sure that you can't jimmy these?”

Hunk scrubbed his hand against his smock again. “I could, but I'd have to barf on something. This is a bad place, Lance. Almost as bad as Haggar's lab. Worse, in spots.”

Lance gave him an owlish look. _“Worse?”_

“Worse.” Hunk shivered. “I mean, Haggar's super bad and she does super bad stuff, but she doesn't get off on it, okay? She does it, but she doesn't do it because it's fun. She's been at it for so long that people parts are just parts. These guys... well, let's just say that they'd be right at home in the Spanish Inquisition. It leaves a mark, it really does. I can't really do all that much around here unless you can cleanse it. I mean, I could only do what I did to the Center's science deck because Lizenne and Keith were all fired up—they burned off the taint just by being there. Hey, didn't Lizenne teach you how to do that?”

Lance shrugged and continued toward the next set of doors. “Sort of. I'm not really all that good at it yet. I can wash poisons out of my own system, but we hadn't really gotten further than that. And it makes me feel all slooshy, like I'm underwater, and I felt like a mermaid for the rest of the day.”

Hunk gave him a sidelong look and would have asked another question, but someone spoke up nearby. Not so near as to make out the words, but they'd heard that voice before. Lance looked up sharply at the sound and crept forward, Hunk trailing curiously behind. Lo and behold, a wide pair of double doors stood open, a wonderfully inviting sight after so many grim portals. It sounded like a large room, too, to judge by the way another familiar voice echoed slightly when it asked, “How did you get _that,_ Sarge? They're restricted!”

A bark of gravelly laughter rang on the air. “A good sergeant obeys regulations, boy. A _smart_ sergeant makes sure he has the equipment to break 'em, if there's a need to! Did a tour of duty in Unilu space once, and if you don't learn a thing or two from an environment like that, there's no hope for you. There are ways to pick even a Ghamparva's pockets, and better yet, ways to slip things into them. People like them don't expect that kind of thing from the likes of us, nor will we give them reason to. Old Tashrak never noticed a thing, and I'll trust you to keep it that way.”

His callow young companion chortled. “Yeah. Think this'll let us find the vermin, Sarge?”

“Should. Surveillance is all messed up right now for some reason. Can't get more than blurs, but big blurs are big blurs and little blurs are little blurs, and it ain't the big ones that I'm interested in. That's how I spotted them last time, for all that they'd chewed the equipment to hash.”

Once again, Hunk saw Lance close his eyes and take a deep breath; the squeak he uttered this time was right out of a ratcatcher's worst nightmare, and he followed it up with several chirps and chitters that wouldn't have been out of place in the Castle's walls at night. This, of course, elicited terrified cries from within the room, and the two hapless soldiers fled in complete disarray.

Lance clasped his hands as if in prayer and said, _“Lo siento, Mama...”_

Hunk poked him. “You are not. Dick move, dude.”

Lance waved a hand dismissively and headed for the doors. “I know, but I really don't want to have to shoot them. They're the only people wandering around loose in here who aren't evil, crazy, zombies, or technically dead. Why are they even here? They can't possibly be of any sort of use to the Ghamparva. I mean... oh, wow, Hunk, check this out!”

“Ooooh,” Hunk said delightedly.

It was a machine shop. No large industrial installation of any sort can function properly without one, and naturally the Ghamparva could command the very best. Lance couldn't even guess what half of the larger machines were for, but they were pretty impressive. Hunk knew more, of course, and he liked what he saw.

“Cool,” Hunk crooned, the engineer's avarice in his voice very plain. “That's a resistance solderer over there. I've never seen one that big! Ooh, and look at the 3D drafting board, I've gotta get me one of those someday. Yeah, and there's the 3D printer right there, big sucker, could probably handle titanium alloys without breaking a sweat. And over there, that big shiny thing, that's a genuine Bappofleemer, you can't get them for commercial use anymore, and that's a snortascope... hey, is that a forge?”

Lance stared at the blackened steel monstrosity lurking in the back of the room and shrugged. “I wouldn't know, Hunk. They probably use it for evil, anyway. Hey, what's this?”

There was a small console on one side of the room, a simple little thing that looked as though it had been mostly ignored by whoever worked in here. There were even dirty dishes and used coffee mugs piled on top of it—from the smell of them, it had been very evil coffee—and the small, scratched screen was glowing brightly with blurry scenes of what appeared to be a lot of blobs running around in all directions. That didn't interest Lance nearly so much as the little keycard, about an inch wide and four inches long, that was sticking out of a slot next to the screen.

Eyes riveted to that slip of micro-circuitry, Lance waved a hand at his teammate. “Hunk, put it down and come have a look at this.”

Hunk had just been reaching for a particularly tempting object that might have had a keyhole saw somewhere in its ancestry, but he turned and joined Lance at the console anyway. Lance didn't use that tone of voice often, and did so only when he'd made a real find. He had, as it turned out, and Hunk couldn't help but stand and stare at it.

“That is what I think it is, right?” Lance asked. “Nasty showed me a picture of one once, but I can't be sure.”

Hunk's hand hovered over the card for a moment, and he smiled broadly. “A master key. A real one. Sarge must have magic hands, Lance, 'cause he had to have picked the pockets of the station's commander to get this. Let's take them home with us when we leave, all right? Yantilee might have some use for them, and we owe them for this. We can get anywhere with this thing!”

“Dum-dum-dum _dummm!”_ Lance hummed the “treasure” theme from a certain ancient and very popular video game series. “We've got the big key! Can you find your armor with it, or Kevaah?”

“Gimme a sec...” Hunk replied absently, his fingers rattling on the controls. The images on the screen jerked and flicked from blurs to text to a rather blocky-looking design that Lance recognized as a floor map with a tiny red dot blinking in one out-of-the way area. “Yeah, there we are, and... wow, this is a crummy machine. The senior engineer hasn't upgraded this thing since the invention of ever, and probably keeps it that way because he doesn't want anyone bugging him while he's working. Nice to know that technical difficulty is a good excuse the universe over. Okay, there's the treasure room... big one, and sort of hidden behind a bunch of offices. Sneaky.”

Lance peered at the screen. The image wasn't very good, but he knew what he was looking at. “No it isn't. That's a sliding bookshelf. They've hidden the door to the secret room behind an actual sliding bookshelf. That's been done so often that it's a stupid cliché back home. I even learned how to make one in middle school—in Wood Shop, if you can believe it, because Mr. Barstow was addicted to bad mystery novels. It was a class project, and it took us all period to set the catch to a fake book that you pulled out. He made the book specially for it, hand-painting it and everything, and he titled it _The Annals of the Great Scatologists_ or something weird like that, and we mounted it on the hand-tools closet because someone kept stealing the chisels. Why did they use a sliding bookshelf, Hunk?”

Hunk smirked and tapped the controls again. “'Cause maybe it isn't a cliché out here. Could be an Earth thing, you know. We'll ask Coran about it later. Aha, and there's the communications center, see that? From the treasure room, a right, second left, and up two levels will take us right there, and then we're going to call for all the help. Speaking of that, where are you, Kevaah?”

It took several minutes to find him, and they only did so because they knew how he moved. All Blades had a very distinctive way of moving unless they were pretending to be something else, but Kevaah took it to extremes. He moved more like a tiger than anything else, and they spotted that particular manner just as he encountered a trio of Ghamparva. What happened next made both Paladins jerk away from the screen in horror and left quite a mess on the floor behind him.

Lance swallowed hard. “I think he found a knife.”

Hunk shuddered. “Yeah. Um. Do we really want to take him back with us?”

Lance scowled. “Yeah, we do. They made him what he is, I think, and that wasn't his fault. Besides, you owe him dinner and a tummy-rub, and I think he can see things that other Galra guys can't. Maybe that'll get Lizenne off of my back for a while. And I want him on my side, thanks.”

“Point,” Hunk conceded and pulled the key-card out of its slot. “Okay, let's get moving. I want my armor back.”

“Me, too,” Lance agreed, although he turned and swept the room with his eyes one more time, and they came to rest on something that might actually be of use. “Oh, wait, just a minute. I'm going to make something real quick.”

“In here?” Hunk asked as Lance made a beeline for a big stand of cable reels. “I thought that I was the engineer around here.”

“You are, but I can do a few things, too. Mr. Barstow taught us about all the tools, not just saws and sanders.” Lance pulled out several lengths of lightweight cable and cut them off with the nearby nipper, then grabbed a double-handful of what looked to be extra-large lug nuts out of a bin. “These worked really well the last time we were fighting hordes of monsters, and I want to keep in practice.”

Hunk caught on to what he was doing almost immediately, and moved to help him set the crimps on the cables. “Simple, easy, doesn't show up on weapons scans, and works on anything with legs. Like yulpadi. Mmmm, yulpadi. How many of these will you want to make?”

Lance hefted the first bola whip thoughtfully. “Maybe four. I'm pretty sure there's enough cable here for that.”

“Sounds good.”

Duly armed, they made their way back out into the halls, this time with a real destination in mind, and oddly enough, the halls were empty. “Where is everybody?” Hunk asked curiously.

“Probably chasing Kevaah,” Lance said. “He is kind of leaving a trail. He'll need a bath later.”

“Me, too,” Hunk said, scratching at the small of his back. “These uniforms are nasty.”

“Me three,” Lance said, longing for a good swim in a real ocean. “This place is starting to get to me. A left here, right?”

“Yup, and another one two intersections down. Then straight on for four more, and that should take us right there.”

They turned the corner and hurried onward with more confidence than perhaps was wise. They rounded the corner of the second left turn without looking first, and as a result, they came face-to-face with the enemy rather sooner than they'd hoped. A little more than face-to-face, actually. Hunk and Lance collided heavily with the man in the lead, knocking him over backwards into his fellows with a startled yelp. They flailed for balance, then backed away with sheepish grins when they saw the team of large, cranky Galra staring at them.

“Whoops,” Hunk said.

“Sorry!” Lance added, and then they ran for their lives.

“ _Get them!”_ someone roared behind them, spurring them to greater efforts.

“Hunk,” Lance panted, diving around the next corner. “Wasn't that the guy you nut-punched a little while ago?”

“Yeah,” Hunk panted back grimly. “Let's run faster.”

They did that, and got lost again in the process. Hunk eventually remembered that he had a master key on hand, and waved it at one of the many unmarked doors, which slid open immediately to allow them entry. They piled inside and slammed the door shut, staying very quiet until their pursuers had gone past, and then took a look around. It was an office of some sort, bare and unadorned, with a desk, a terminal, and a couple of chairs. It seemed that even evil secret agencies had paperwork to do, and required places to do it in, Lance mused, and then sat down on the desk to rest his aching legs.

“Where are we, Hunk?” he asked plaintively.

Hunk thumped down in the desk chair and slid the master key into the slot. “Hmm. Actually, we're pretty close. See that door off to the side? There are a bunch more offices just like this one, all lined up in a row, and they're all connected through those doors. All we need to do is go through them—the one we want is about five doors down.”

“Cool,” Lance said, amazed that for once, he'd actually gone in the right direction.

The next office was as empty as the first, but the second showed signs of occupancy; someone had left the computer on, apparently with a botanical website pulled up. Lance peered at the rather attractive tree on the screen curiously. It looked a little like a weeping willow, only with orange leaves and bright green berries. “Ghamparva like gardening?”

Hunk glanced over and shook his head. “Savage gardening, maybe. That's a Marolan ayack tree. Ronok warned me about those. They look almost exactly like another kind of tree, the pulya tree, and that one's really popular for its sap—they dry it to make a sweet spice for a special kind of candy. Ayack trees have tasty sap too, but it's instantly addictive, and it'll kill you in less than a month if you don't get to a medic within two days of your first taste.”

Lance backed away from the screen. “Evil gardening. What else do these guys do, evil knitting? Evil scrapbooking? Evil stamp collecting?”

“Just evil in general, I think,” Hunk said, opening the next door.

The third office was also unoccupied, but the fourth was definitely in use, and by someone who liked to keep trophies. Hundreds of framed items had been hung on the walls, or set around the room on stands or in cases. Some of these were probably hunting trophies, being polished skulls and artistically-arranged horns, fangs, and antlers, but there were a few crania among them that couldn't have come from anything other than Galra. There were bits of clothing, items of what were probably jewelry, a few odd devices that defied interpretation, but mostly there were swords. Lots and lots of swords, specifically the luxite blades that the Marmorans used, hundreds of them. Zaianne had explained it to them once that a Marmoran blade was linked to its wielder's life force, and that the pale-purple sigil on the crosspiece would continue to glow so long as its owner lived. All of the ones on the walls were dead, but a few of them, sitting on stands on the desk, still gleamed defiantly in the dim light.

“Wow,” Hunk breathed. “Holy crud, Lance. They killed them. They've been killing them for a long time.”

Lance swallowed hard and reached out a hand toward the live blades, knowing that he'd be able to tell which one belonged to who. He'd handled Keith's blade before, and Zaianne had let him hold hers once, and he knew that he'd be able to tell which one was Kevaah's. Four of the swords emanated pain, frustration, and a deadly hatred of their captors. The fifth--

Lance gasped and staggered back a couple of steps; Kevaah had just made another kill, and the burst of savage emotions hit him like an electric shock. Shuddering, he picked that blade up and looped it into his bola whips. He had made a promise, after all, and intended to keep it; he wished that he could take all of the others as well, even the dead ones, but he only had two hands. “I know, Hunk. They're going to pay for that. From the feel of it, Kevaah's getting a head start. Hey, what's that on the wall over there, between the not-really-a-wolf skull and the zap gun?”

“Huh?” Hunk said, and then scowled. “Seriously? The creep stole my headband for his murder-wall.”

Lance puffed an only slightly hysterical laugh. “In case of fire, break the glass.”

“No thanks,” Hunk said, removing the frame from the wall and popping open the catches on the back. “Broken glass gets everywhere, and somebody has already stabbed me in the head once today. Ah, that's better!”

Lance smiled. Hunk had been wearing that headband for so many years that he looked unfinished without it. He could be totally naked otherwise, but so long as he had that one strip of yellow cloth, he was never under-dressed. “Better.”

“Oh, yeah,” Hunk said, striking a pose. “Just remember to grow my hair back later on, okay? I'm definitely feeling a draft back there.”

“Anything for you, Hunk,” Lance promised, jerking a thumb at the final door, “but first...”

“Yeah,” Hunk agreed.

The fifth office was another empty one, although the sliding bookshelf was full of dusty knickknacks and old data cards. Hunk could feel a hidden catch even through decades of evil, and pulled the ears of a small, ugly statue with all confidence. There was a click, and the concealed door slid ponderously aside, allowing the Paladins a fine view of the contents of the room beyond. It wasn't what they had expected.

“It looks like the attic of my house,” Lance said. “You know, before the safety inspector came by and told us that it was a fire hazard?”

Hunk nodded. “I remember. And the yard sale you guys held after he left. That was a really good yard sale, man. You had people from miles around coming in to take a look, and you and your sibs set up refreshments stands, and you guys made a ton of money. How much did your family rake in, anyway?”

“Enough to pay a lot of bills,” Lance said, looking around. “There was a lot of good stuff up there.”

There was probably a lot of good stuff in here, piles and piles of it, for all that neither of them could recognize the purpose of most of the things in those heaps. There were racks and crates of what probably were clothing items, and a whole shelf of what looked to be Marmoran bodysuits. Boxes of what might have been jewelry lined several more shelves. Large crates held all manner of peculiar objects and devices, and there were even items of what might have been furniture, or perhaps statuary. Some of it glittered, some of it didn't, and almost none of it was comprehensible. On the other hand, between what looked like a hatrack loaded with beaded curtains and a jewel-encrusted exercise tree for some sort of large lizard was a long slab of milky quartz graven with peculiar hieroglyphs. Atop that lay Hunk's armor and bayard, along with the small chest he used as a lunchbox.

“ _Finally,”_ Hunk breathed, putting down his packet of granola bars and reaching for the chest.

Alas, it was empty.

Hunk stared into the vacant depths with an expression of outrage on his face for a long moment, and then brought down a fist so hard on the stone that the box jumped. “They stole my lunch. My actual lunch. Holy crud, it's not bad enough that these guys are one of the major scourges of the Empire, but they're schoolyard bullies, too? Nobody steals my lunch and gets away with it.”

Lance grinned. “That's right, Hunk. Ronnie Hopkins learned that the hard way in second grade.”

Hunk smirked. “He sure did. Mom got mad at me for booby-trapping that piece of cake with laxatives, but he never stole from me again. Oh, hey, they didn't find the secret compartment, though.”

Lance gave hunk a sidelong look. “You build stealth lunchboxes?”

“Sure. Who's going to look for small valuables under a chicken sandwich?” Hunk dropped his granola bars and the wrapped brain implant into the box and pulled off his smock. “That's where I put the shopping money and some other things. Watch the door, Lance. I need to get dressed.”

Lance obligingly turned his back and let his hand drop to the blade he carried. Kevaah was still alive, he could feel that much, and in the grip of a peculiar mood. He could feel a wild mix of excitement, feral rage, vengefulness, sorrow, bloodlust, and a number of other things that Lance couldn't quite identify, all of them encapsulated strictly within a shell of diamond-hard logic, an emotional tempest crammed into a teacup. He was, by conventional standards, entirely insane, but he'd learned how to make that condition pay rent. He was fine for the moment, anyway, unhurt and running loose. Idly, Lance wondered whether Zaianne would be able to handle him, and whether or not Kolivan would want him back. He wasn't a bad person, in a hair-trigger carnage sort of way, and he still knew how to laugh at non-gory jokes, and he was reasonably polite when nothing was threatening him. His table manners weren't any worse than Lance was used to seeing, anyway.

Lance paused, and frowned at himself. The last time that he had lined up these sorts pros and cons had been back in seventh grade, when a big, amiable stray dog with a fair amount of pit bull in its ancestry had followed him home. He smiled at the memory. Rocky had indeed been a sweet and friendly dog, but he'd belonged to someone clear across town and had been two-timing him with every soft-hearted sucker within a two-mile radius. He'd eventually gotten himself into a spot of trouble, one that had eventually led an animal-rights group straight to the doorstep of an illegal dog-fighting ring, and last he knew, Rocky was living out his golden years as a neighborhood hero. Kevaah probably wouldn't do that, unless this crazy adventure counted, but he figured it for a good omen.

The faint, familiar, metallic  _bonk_ of Hunk knocking his helmet into place distracted him from his thoughts, and he turned to see Hunk, fully-armored and affixing the lunchbox to his belt. _Dressed for success,_ Lance thought, watching him sling the bolas over his shoulder and holster his bayard. “Good to go?”

Hunk smiled. “And then some. Let's go and make a call.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I debated having this space in Spanish just to continue the joke, but the brutal truth is that my knowledge of that language extends only as far as the link to Google Translate, and I'm lazy. ^_^ Spanch and I hope you enjoyed this chapter and continue to enjoy our crazy fic, and we encourage everyone to drop a kudos or a comment, because we love hearing from people. See you next week!


	23. Other Help

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO! I got bored one evening this past week and wondered what would happen if I googled my Ao3 handle and "fanart", just because. I really wasn't expecting anything, because this fic doesn't exactly have the largest readership or the most common pairings. BUT! I! FOUND! THIS!!!!!!!
> 
> https://www.deviantart.com/troblsomtwins829/art/Moose-of-Doom-Fanart-741855742
> 
> Technically this is two years late because I fail at social media, but everybody go there and tell the artist how wonderful they are! *runs off screaming*

Chapter 23: Other Help

One right turn, one second left turn, and one elevator complete with annoying music later, they stepped out cautiously into yet another dim and empty hallway. Hunk looked around in mild confusion and muttered, “Kevaah must really be giving them trouble.”

Lance concentrated, finding the rampaging Blade's signature without difficulty. “Yeah. That was a really good lunch you made us. He's all fired up... and one level below us and closing, by the way.”

Hunk nodded. “Well, he knew that we would be heading for the communications room. Good enough for me.”

Lance was in full agreement, and followed Hunk to the left and down the hall to another pair of double doors that hissed open at the touch of the master key. They passed through them and into a darkened anteroom of some sort, confusing Lance until Hunk pointed to a large table that stood off to the right. “Planning room,” Hunk murmured with a slightly avaricious look at that item of furniture. “Those tables have a holographic system that lets them plot evil in real-time. This is probably a mobile command base. Yantilee's got one of the standard models on the _Quandary,_ and a few portable systems. That one looks top-of-the-line.”

“Paladin now, pirate later,” Lance said, craning his neck at the open door on the far side of the room. “It's probably too evil to work with, anyway.”

Hunk sighed regretfully. “Yeah. How many Ghamparva are in the comm center?”

Lance moved forward as soundlessly as he could, sliding along the wall until he could peer around the doorframe. What he saw there made him start in surprise. “None,” he whispered.

Hunk, sidling up next to him, gave him a disbelieving look. “Seriously?”

“It's our two guys again. You know, the scared-of-mice ones? Just them. No Ghamparva.” Lance shook his head in confusion. “Seriously, why are they here? Is the station's commander keeping them as pets or something? They can't be trainees, they're not good enough, or evil enough, and they're scared of _mice,_ for Pete's sake!”

Hunk poked him. “Lance, are you listening to yourself? We live with the mice. We know what they're capable of. If they were my enemies, I would fear them, too. Cute and fuzzy does not mean harmless. Just remember Cutie-Pie, and what happened when he got loose at Lily's birthday party.”

Lance had no choice but to concede the point. Timmy Martinez's psychotic hamster had spent three years as a neighborhood legend, and small dogs still turned and fled in terror at the sight of any creature smaller than a squirrel. If Freddy Kreuger, Jason Voorhees, and possibly the Predator could all be reborn at once into the body of a small domestic rodent, then that was Cutie-Pie. Contained in that one fluffy brown creature was an endless existential rage that could bite through plate glass—and had on at least one occasion—and a burning desire to tear the throat out of the entire world. Tall order though it was for an animal no longer than six inches from madly-twitching nose to quivering rump, Cutie-Pie had clearly felt himself up to the challenge. The fifteen minutes of screaming chaos that occurred when one of Lily Martinez's cousins had tried to take the creature out of his cage and cuddle him was still spoken of in awed whispers, and people still lifted their trouser cuffs to show the scars the little beast had inflicted upon them before escaping out into the wider world. Given that the average lifespan of most hamsters was about three years, Cutie-Pie was probably in the process of fighting the Devil for possession of the Throne of Hell right now, but no one could be too sure about that. They'd never found the body, after all, and some things were just too mean to die.

“I remember. That was one crazy hamster.” Lance took another peek at the two men in the comm center. “Crud. Hunk, I don't think that I can scare them away this time. There aren't any other exits, and they might try to barricade themselves in there.”

“Bola time,” Hunk said, sliding one set of cords loose. “Cover me, Lance.”

“I could just stun them,” Lance suggested.

Hunk shook his head and swung a bola experimentally. “We don't know how long that'll put them out for. If we have to leave in a hurry, I'd rather not have to carry them. Use your marksmanship skills and take out their weapons instead. I know that you've been practicing.”

Another solid truth; Lizenne's lessons had left him with a great deal of pent-up emotion, and he'd been relieving them in the training deck. As a result, his score had definitely improved. “Okay,” Lance conceded, “but be careful.”

“I'm good, Lance. Ready?”

Lance brought up his bayard, which obligingly reshaped itself into the sleek sniper's weapon that he knew so well, and he took up a position by the left side of the doorframe. “Yeah.”

Inside the office, the younger soldier was tapping at the controls, monitoring the search parties' chattering with a worried expression on his face. “They've just found another group, Sarge. Four more dead. Something big and angry got them from behind with a big knife of some sort. Do those vermin use knives?”

“No,” Sarge replied grimly, “but they can use things that do. If the little ones have gotten control of one or two of the assassin units, that's probably what's doing it. This is weird, boy. Usually, it's just me they're after.”

The soldier vented a faint _huh._ “Maybe one of the scientists caught one, and did to it what they usually do with new lab animals. Would that make them angry enough?”

Sarge whistled through his teeth. “Hadn't thought of that. You're probably right, boy. It was Corporal Vorik who sealed our fate back on their world; he'd seen one going for his lunch and shot at it. He missed, but that was enough to get us marked for death. Ye gods, if somebody did take one of them apart... oh, yeah, that'd do it. Tell you what, how 'bout I signal the escape pod bays and get a shuttle warmed up for us--”

“Maybe later, guys,” Hunk said, stepping into the room.

The two soldiers reacted predictably, leaping to their feet and bringing up their blasters, allowing Lance a pair of clear targets. Two thin, bright bolts from the blue bayard took the guns out of their hands, and the shock and confusion of their sudden disarmament allowed Hunk's first bola-whip to tangle up the sergeant before he could recover. The younger soldier did try to rush them, but the room was large; Hunk brought him down easily with the second bola before he could get too close.

“Nice throwing, Hunk!” Lance congratulated him.

“Nice shooting,” Hunk replied, giving credit where it was due. “Help me get these two tied up the rest of the way, all right?”

The younger soldier gave them no trouble, having knocked his head sharply on the floor when Hunk's bola had taken his legs out from under him; his helmet had protected him from serious injury, but he'd have a headache when he came back to his senses. The sergeant was struggling to get his arms loose from the binding cables when the Paladins dragged his junior over, and bared his teeth defiantly at them.

“You'll never get away with this, Paladins!” the old fellow snarled, wrenching at his bonds. “You'll have to kill everyone aboard the station to do that.”

“I'll pass, thanks,” Lance said, making a face, although he kept his bayard pointed at the Galra. “We know a bunch of guys who'd like to see your bosses dead, but we owe you two too much to let them have you.”

The sergeant stared at him in disbelief. “What?”

“Seriously, we couldn't have gotten this far without you,” Hunk added, pulling the second bola-whip tightly around the sergeant's legs, and then pulling out the master key. “I mean it, pal, thanks.”

The younger soldier groaned and looked up in confusion. “But... but all the deaths... the destroyed assassin units... you're in league with those killer vermin, aren't you?”

Hunk and Lance shared a look, and laughed. Hunk shook his head. “Nope. None of that was us, and there aren't any mice here.”

“But...!” the soldier protested.

Lance took a deep breath and let loose a prizewinning _**“Squeeeeak!”**_ , following it up with a couple of thin chirps that made the two captives flinch. “Today, I am a mouse, and I am sparkling in my own way.”

Sarge growled. “Then what's been turning Deck Four into a bloodbath, if it hasn't been you?”

“That,” grated an unfamiliar voice from behind them, “Is what I would like to know.”

The Paladins whirled around to see a trio of very dangerous Galra standing in the door. One was a lean and supple Kedrekan with the eyes of a serial killer, the second was a massive, shaggy fellow with the heavy build and thick tusks of a Korbexan hybrid, but the third cast them both into shadow through the aura of authority that he wore like a cloak. Most of this one's ancestry had come from Galran Prime, Lance thought, but there was some Golrazi in there, enough to add a certain saurian cast to his already harsh features and a cold, deadly look to his eyes.

Sarge vented a satisfied snort. “You're in for it now, you two. That's Lieutenant-Commander Surok. You'll be lucky if he just has those two men there kill you.”

Surok flashed the man a dire look that made him cringe, and refocused his attention upon the two Paladins. “I will not kill either of you immediately. You will tell me, one way or another, how you removed your fellow from our control, among other things. Your actions have cost us a great deal today, Paladins. For this, you will pay dearly.”

Lance opened fire. He'd heard that tone of voice before, and recently, and he recognized its intent. This man was another one like Akazia had been; older, better-controlled, less impulsive, but just as indifferent to the sanctity of life. The Ghamparva didn't bother to dodge, even when Hunk opened fire as well—they had brought up their left arms, each one bearing a force-shield that turned aside their fire as though they were raindrops.

“You will surrender,” Surok said, coldly and without emotion, a simple statement of fact. “If you do not, we will force you. All that is necessary is that you are intact enough to speak. Everything else is optional.”

Unable to break through the shields, the two Paladins ceased fire. Lance might have said something properly defiant, but a strange rush of emotions forestalled him, emotions that were not his. He was still holding Kevaah's blade, and it had pulsed a strong burst of savage joy, dreadful anticipation, and feral delight. Looking past Surok and his hulking henchmen, he saw a patch of deeper shadow moving stealthily forward, and a fiery glint from an orange-gold eye.

Lance smiled grimly. “I can answer one question right now, and for free,” he said, holstering his bayard and transferring the short, hooked blade to his dominant hand, keeping it half-concealed against the underside of his wrist. “All those dead guys? Totally not our fault. Well, maybe a little. Think fast!”

Lance threw the knife. It was a clumsy throw, not at all up to the standards of what the Ghamparva had been trained to do battle with, and they treated the attempt with the contempt it deserved... just as Lance had hoped they would. The gangly Kedrekan merely stepped aside, as did his enormous companion. Surok didn't so much as bat an eyelash as the knife tumbled harmlessly past his ear, and his lip curled in scorn at the tinny rattle of luxite hitting the decking behind him.

“And what was that supposed to have accomplished?” he asked.

Lance waggled a finger at him. _“I've_ just kept a promise, thank you very much, which is more than you're going to do any time soon. Maybe if you surrender right now, you'll live to see your next birthday, but I wouldn't bet on it. There are a lot of people who want a piece of you right now. Preferably framed.”

Surok bared his teeth in a snarl. “I will destroy you slowly, Paladin.”

“No, you will not,” a low voice rasped, and the Kedrekan yelped as he was yanked backward into the darkened anteroom. There was an ugly, wet sound and a meaty thump, followed by a soft and terrible chuckle. “I know your voice, man.”

The big hairy henchman spun around with a roar, and Surok turned to see him lunge into the shadows. His roaring rose into a terrible, horrified scream that cut off abruptly.

“I have heard it many times,” the soft voice continued conversationally, over the sound of a large body collapsing, “as have the other prisoners. It is a sound that means suffering.”

Surok went pale and backed away, and he glanced back at Lance in fury and terror. “The _ghathri._ You turned it loose? You fools, have you any idea of what you have done?”

Hunk shrugged. “He's okay if you're not being mean to him. He likes granola bars, fried thurnash with groppa, and probably tummy rubs.”

Surok stared at him in disbelief, but had no time to reply; Kevaah's eyes were burning like coals in the darkness now, and light glinted from bared fangs.

“Nowhere to run, Surok,” Kevaah crooned from the shadows. “I have sealed the doors. Come hunt me now, murderer.”

Surok drew his own sword, a jagged-edged, meter-long blade of crystallized amethyst energy. “I will kill your friends.”

Kevaah laughed again. “Do that, coward. Kill them if you like, but once they are dead, you will have nothing left to hide behind. Nothing at all, and I will take my time with you. I have not forgotten what you did to my fellow Blades. They refused to speak, or even to cry out while you played with them. Do you think that you might be so brave?”

Surok's sword quivered in his hand. “You are a monster!”

“I am what you and your kind made me to be,” Kevaah replied darkly. “Twice over, now. I think that you are both _ghathri_ and _tchang._ Deviant, motherless freak. Come and fight your own kind for once, you filthy animal. A torturer has courage only when his opponent is helpless.”

Surok's face twisted into a rictus of wrath, and he charged into the darkness with a ringing scream of rage. The sounds of a furious sword fight followed immediately thereafter, and Lance used the diversion to give Hunk a nudge.

“Hunk, it's time to call for help,” Lance said, and gave his friend a bonk on the helmet. “Hunk! E.T. phone home!”

Hunk had been mesmerized by the battle in the other room, but the old movie catchphrase snapped him out of it. “Oh! Yeah, right. Hold on, I dropped the key into the lunchbox. Oops, and the granola bars have all got loose. Hold on, hold on...”

A little sifting around among the granola produced the key and a scattering of fragrant crumbs, and Hunk went to work on the communications console. Lance heaved a long sigh, indulged in a moment's homesickness, and glanced at the two very out-of-place soldiers. They were huddling together in terror, and the younger man was actually whimpering.

“So,” Lance said over the sound of two highly-trained maniacs attempting to butcher each other in the next room. “You know that guy? Not Surok, but the other one?”

The sergeant stared at him. “You could say that. We had to help recapture it after its last escape attempt. Thirty-seven Ghamparva died that time!”

Lance nodded, wincing at the noise. From the sound of it, the big planning table had just been smashed, and parts of it were being used to hit something very hard. “Well, he did say that he wakes up angry. I don't blame him. Quick question, though; would you rather face him, or a bunch of mice?”

Sarge gave him a suspicious look. “Neither. I like breathing, and keeping all my insides where they're supposed to be.”

“Good answer,” Lance said.

“What are you going to do with us?” the soldier asked meekly, earning himself a glare from the sergeant.

Lance smiled. “Take you back with us, actually. There's somebody I know of who would really like to talk to Sarge about that moon with all the mice on it, and if he's half as good at picking pockets as he said he was, and if you're willing to learn some new things, I might be able to find you both a job. How are you at piracy?”

There was a choked-off scream and a ghastly ripping sound from the other room, like a side of meat being torn in half. A moment later, Kevaah flowed into the comm center with a hyena's grin upon his face, eyes feral, and a huge, dark, wet stain down his front, from his dripping jaws to the spatters on his toes. That mad gaze skimmed lightly over Hunk and Lance, but it fixed like a gunsight when it came to the two soldiers. Kevaah grinned wider, bloody hand raising the knife, and he began to approach slowly and with dreadful intent. Fortunately for the two captives, Lance put himself between them and Kevaah. Lance had grown up with dogs, and he had seen that same wolfish expression before and knew how to handle it. Putting on his sternest expression, Lance waved the Finger of God under the maddened Galra's nose. Kevaah blinked in surprise, and stopped to stare at him.

“Bad Galra!” Lance scolded in an iron-hard voice that had once had his cousin's half coyote, half bull terrier mix whining with its tail between its legs. “Bad, bad Galra! We do _not_ ruthlessly savage prisoners when they're tied up!”

Kevaah stared at him in confusion. “Why not? That's the best time to do it.”

Lance's gauntleted finger rapped him sharply on the nose, making him grunt in surprise and retreat a few steps. _“No._ That is not the way we do it. You've been a big help with keeping the bad guys busy, and thanks for the save just now and all that, but you leave captured prisoners alone. Got that?”

“I suppose,” Kevaah admitted, wiping at his rather sticky chin. “I've already had enough for one day, anyway.”

Lance nodded. “Good. We can work with that. Guys, is there a restroom nearby?”

The two soldiers, who had gone back to huddling in terror when Kevaah had walked in, nodded and murmured that a side door in the anteroom did indeed lead to a private personal hygiene space.

“Cool,” Lance said firmly. “Kevaah, you will go and clean yourself up, and when you come back, I will give you a granola bar. A whole one, and I'll give you two if you sit down and stay quiet until it's time to leave, all right?”

Kevaah smiled, relaxing a little. Now that his purpose-built adrenal system wasn't pumping its equivalent of rocket fuel into his bloodstream, he was getting tired, and a faint but insistent rumble from his belly told him that Lance's offer was worth taking up. “I can do that. I will go and do that, for three bars.”

“Two and a half,” Lance said firmly. “You get the other half if you behave yourself when the pirates show up. No more than that, though. Hunk wants to make you a really good dinner, and I don't want to spoil your appetite.”

Kevaah chuckled, relaxing further. “Very well, although you will soon find that no amount of snacks can dull _my_ appetite.”

Kevaah turned and left, leaving sticky footprints behind him. Lance shuddered and sat down with a thud in one of the chairs. “Holy crow, what are the others going to think?” he asked. “He's mostly a wild animal.”

“Think of him as a fuzzy shark with legs,” Hunk said absently. “One that likes granola bars. That's cool, isn't it? You like sharks. Zaianne should be able to handle him, and she's got plenty of backup. Okay, I've gotten this thing to broadcast my signal code. Hopefully, someone friendly will be within range. It's a pretty good bet, since this station's got a lot of juice. Who do you think will answer it? I'd love to see Zorjesca again. She promised to let me have a look at the _Mop's_ engines when we meet up next. She's got a genuine Hibble'Spec-Throplat triple-coil drive, custom-modified by a pro, and it can really move when it needs to.”

Lance leaned back in the chair and squinted up at the ceiling, knowing that the events of the day would likely come back to haunt him later, but this was safe enough to think about. “Nah. This isn't her usual territory. I'll bet that it's Tchak who shows up. He gets everywhere, and he's not afraid of anything. Cool guy, even if he does steal all the cookies. We could get Ketzewan instead. Now, that's my kind of broccoli.”

Hunk rolled his eyes, then glanced over at the door as a much cleaner Kevaah ambled in. There were a few lingering stains on his smock, but they'd be burning that garment at the nearest opportunity anyway. Hunk tossed the Galra the promised treats, which Kevaah snatched nimbly out of the air and carried over to one corner of the room. Kevaah then sat down and began to munch slowly at his snack, eyes shifting constantly between friend, captured foe, the screens, and the doorway.

“Maybe,” Hunk said, “but every time I look at him I think of broccoli cheese soup, and every time I listen to him, I think of Horatio Hornblower. Weird combination. Maybe we'll get lucky and Yantilee will show up instead.”

“That would be awesome,” Lance agreed. “Or, hey, maybe Clarence or Jasca. Jasca's got a hot tub. I really want a soak in the hot tub. No I don't, I want a swim in the upside-down pool, and then I want a hot soak.”

Hunk smiled. “And maybe a dip in the marsh, too? I'd like a dip in the marsh.”

Lance groaned with longing. The pool was great in an inverted sort of way, and the hot tub was wonderful, but the marsh was special in a way that couldn't quite be defined. “Hunk, I'd have to take two baths just to be clean enough to sit in the mud without polluting it. This is a bad place.”

“Got that right,” Hunk said, watching the console as it pulsed out the encrypted distress signal into space. “I think that Coran's still got some of that hantic-leaf shower gel—hey! Looks like we've got an answer! See that? Someone's coming.”

Lance bounced to his feet, ignoring the protests of his stiffening muscles. “That's great! Who is it?”

“Dunno. Let me check.” Hunk tapped at the controls, trying to get a fix on the approaching ship, which the station's sensors seemed to have a great deal of difficulty finding. “Hello? If you can hear us, we'd like to know about it.”

A sound like the wind whisking over snowdrifts hissed through the speakers, and an echoing whisper replied, _“We are receiving.”_

Kevaah jerked and dropped his granola bar at the sound of that voice, and the two Paladins gasped. “Oh...” Hunk said nervously. “Uh. Yeah. Thank you.”

“ _You are a Paladin,”_ the strange, hollow voice continued, and the indistinct form of something huge and glossy-black sifted into view on one of the screens. _“Two Paladins. You should not be here. The Castle is not here. No one is normally here.”_

“It wasn't our idea,” Lance said grimly, accepting his fate. “Look, Shussshorim--”

“ _I am not Shussshorim.”_

Lance blinked. “Oh. Sorry. Who--?”

“ _I am Thssskrakos, She-Who-Haunts-The-Deeps. You require aid, Paladins?”_

“Holy crud, Lance, it's one of the new ones,” Hunk said in a hoarse whisper, then swallowed hard and pulled himself together because they really did need help. “Yeah. We need help. Kind of a lot of it. We were on our way to the Space Mall to do some shopping, kind of thing, but we got interrupted and kidnapped by Ghamparva--”

“ _Ghamparva?”_ There was a sort of anticipatory delight in that word, as if a floor of office workers had just heard that someone was going to be bringing a cake to the breakroom.

Lance gulped. “Yeah. Ghamparva. Lots of them. It's a big mobile base, mostly full of evil, only not as full as it was, 'cause we freed one of the prisoners, and he was really angry.”

“ _As is his right.”_

“Um, yeah.” Lance took a deep breath, which failed to calm his nerves. “There are still a lot of prisoners that need rescuing, okay? And some Galra here that aren't prisoners that we want to keep. That means that you're not allowed to eat them.”

“ _You have the tokens of the Bold Spawnling?”_

Lance glanced at Hunk. “Um... Hunk?”

Hunk emptied the lunchbox out on the console and detached the false bottom, lifting out a small packet of little green pins. Lance blew out a sigh of relief. “Yeah, we do.”

“ _So I perceive. Mark your chosen ones, Paladins. I will arrive shortly.”_

The connection was cut at that point, and Hunk lost no time in hurrying over to Kevaah. “Here,” he said, pulling out a pin and pressing it into Kevaah's hand. “Put that on, and don't take it off. I mean it! Not until we're back at the Castle, and maybe not then. That pin is now a part of you, it's fused to your skin, it's an extra spleen or something, got it?”

Kevaah gave him a quizzical look, but pinned the little ornament to the front of his smock. Hunk didn't stay to watch, but trotted right back over to the two soldiers and affixed two pins to their armor with the magnetic backings. “That goes double for you two,” Hunk admonished them. _“Really_ don't take these off, or try to knock them off, or whatever. These will keep you two from getting killed and eaten, okay? This bunch will probably be even worse than their granny, and she's been eating people like you for five hundred years.”

“What have you just summoned, Paladin?” Kevaah demanded, his clawed fingers lingering on the little chevron-shaped pin. “That voice... what was that?”

“Hoshinthra,” Hunk said.

Kevaah went sheet-white underneath his fur, the first sign of fear that they'd seen him exhibit.

Sarge wasn't any happier. “The _Night Terror?_ That fiend is a myth!”

“No.” Lance sat down heavily again. “She's real, all right, and now she's got grandkids. Lots of grandkids, and some of them are coming to visit.”

“There was only one,” Kevaah said uneasily. “Just one left from the destruction of their worlds.”

Hunk sagged down into a chair and leaned an elbow on the console. “You're half right. Zarkon got the homeworld and all the Warleaders but her. He didn't get all of the colonies, though. Not by a long shot, and they decided to play dead while watching Shussshorim rampage. They studied her for five hundred years, trying to find out what let her survive when the others died. I don't know if they found out exactly what did it, but they sure found a lot of ways to improve on the original. A _lot_ of ways. They've been promising to help us out soon, too. Looks like this is it, or part of it.”

The young soldier was staring at him in horror. “And... and you've _allied_ with them? _How?_ They eat people!”

Lance waved a hand at the screens. “Pidge—that's the green Paladin—bullied Shussshorim into it. It's a long story.”

“Bullied..?” Kevaah whispered. “Hoshinthra cannot be bullied. They cannot be reasoned with. All the Warriors do is attack, and destroy! They cannot even be captured alive, and they disintegrate entirely in minutes when dead! Their blood corrodes luxite blades in seconds!”

Lance smiled wryly. “Like I said, it's a long story. We'll tell you all about it later. Heck, stay with us and Pidge will tell you herself. We've met a couple of Shussshorim's descendants, and they're pretty far advanced from where she is, but we've never seen them fight. What we're going to do, guys, is sit right here, nice and quiet and out of the way, while they deal with the guys downstairs, okay? They'll find us when they've reached a stopping place.”

They didn't have long to wait. Somewhere in the distance came the sound of a heavy impact, and the entire station shuddered around them. Alarms started to blare in strident hoots, and Hunk glanced at the controls. “Knock-knock,” he said.

“Who's there?” Lance asked.

“Doom Moose.”

“Doom Moose who?”

There was another distant _wham,_ a little closer this time, and the floor jerked like a live thing.

“Just Doom Moose, who are no joke,” Hunk replied. “They've just taken out the station's two main gun arrays. Looks like they're lining up on the fighter bays now--”

_WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!_

Lance propped his chin on one fist. “So much for those.”

“There's a fourth,” Sarge said. “Concealed, but big enough to--”

There was a vast crunching, tearing sound that sent tectonic shudders through the very substance of the station, and a different alarm began to scream. Hunk tapped a few more buttons. “Looks like they found it. There's a pretty big hull breach as well--”

_Pachunka-pachunka-pachunka,_ went something several levels below them, and then the hull integrety alarm died away.

“Boarding craft?” Lance asked.

“Yup. Plugged the hole pretty well, too.” Hunk's hand hovered over another section of the controls. “Want to watch?”

Lance made a face. “No, thanks. I've already had enough nightmare fuel for one day, and we'll probably get more when it's time to clear the cell blocks.”

“Cool,” Hunk said, bringing up the station's schematics, where several sections were outlined in livid orange and blinking frantically. “Looks like all of the pod bays are fine, so we'll have plenty of carrying capacity. Nice pods, too, bigger than the standard type, and with greater range. The Castle shouldn't have any trouble picking us up.”

“Yeah,” Lance said thoughtfully. “Where are we, anyway? This place is a long way from where we were grabbed.”

Hunk hummed thoughtfully under his breath. “You're right. We're way the heck out in a whole different Sector. The... huh. We're in the Hubward end of the Hurionee Sector. I've heard about it. There's nothing out in this stretch but a little dust, gas, and and lots of boredom.”

“Best place to hide stuff, I suppose.” Lance scratched his nose, and then had to grab onto the console to keep another huge impact from knocking him out of his chair. “What was that?”

“Ordinance stockpile, and the reserve Quintessence tanks,” Hunk replied as the lights flickered and dimmed slightly. “Aside from essential utilities and core systems, the power's out. Looks like this comm center's one of the lucky spots.”

Outside the anteroom's doors, someone screamed in stark terror. The happy-banshee shriek of a hunting Hoshinthra followed that sound, and something very large with hooves clattered past.

“Define 'lucky',” Lance said.

A few minutes later, something big hit those doors, buckling the tough metal. There was a pause, and then six loud _chunk_ noises made them flinch; the Hoshinthra had sunk its fighting claws into the doors themselves, and with a wrenching groan of tortured armor plate, those doors were hauled apart. Shaped darkness glinting with a coat of mirror-bright scales gleamed in the shadows as their guest stepped into the anteroom.

Lance sat up and waved a hand at it. “Over here,” he called, _“Mi casa es su casa,_ and all that.”

Kevaah rose slowly to his feet, knife in hand and eyes wide with anxiety. “That is larger than the one in the images I was shown.”

Hunk nodded. “Yeah, these are more Irish elk than moose, but the basic design is pretty much the same. It's okay, Kevaah, it's a buddy.”

The Hoshinthra had to duck its head to fit through the doorway, and Kevaah backed quickly away, driven by instinct to seek refuge behind the steadiest thing in the room, and right now that was Lance and Hunk. Not that anyone could blame him for that reaction. The Hoshinthra was massive, the glittering black antennae in constant motion above the gleaming bone of the skull as it took in its surroundings, and its scales reflecting the light so well that it resembled early “green screen” cinematography. They could see the outlines of the Warrior, sort of, and the way it moved, but the creature itself defied the eyes. The only really visible parts of it at the moment were the head and the leaf-green glow of the Warrior's _ksshass-spak-nilza,_ the symbiotic insectoids that could paralyze and kill even the greatest Galra fighters. There was no missing the sheer power and precision of its movements, or the way that it obviously could perceive the precise location of everything in the room, or the terrible death's head grin of the fanged and eyeless skull.

Kevaah was staring in utter horror at the Hoshinthra and clutching desperately at the little green pin that Hunk had given him. “You call those things friends?” he said in a terrified whisper. “How can you? Can't you see them? How can you _not_ see them?”

Hunk stared quizzically at the frightened Galra. “I can see it just fine. Well, sort of, they go mostly invisible when they're excited. They're big, have four feet, snaky necks and tails, big antennae, lots of arms, and really nasty teeth. Scary, yeah, but so long as they don't bite me, that's fine.”

Kevaah turned his orange-gold eyes on Hunk and stared at him as though he couldn't believe what he'd just heard. “Scary...? Paladin, you are blind _._ You truly cannot see them?”

Lance gave Kevaah a suspicious look. “Are you having brain trouble again? They're just big, toothy people with bad attitudes and really sharp senses. They take some getting used to, is all.”

“You _are_ blind!” Kevaah blurted, flinching away from the approaching alien. “Can't you understand? The physical bodies are as _nothing._ All that you are seeing are their shadows! You have no idea of just what those things are, or of what they can do!”

Hunk laid a comforting hand on the trembling man's shoulder. “I get that. They've been dropping little hints the whole time we've known them, but they've played straight with us and don't want all that much in return. They're super-crazy-dangerous, but they're being super-crazy-dangerous at some seriously evil people. You're not evil people, Kevaah. Calm down.”

Kevaah shuddered. “Paladin, you are crazier than I am, but if it gets me past... those... alive, I will not argue.”

The Hoshinthra stopped a polite distance away and dipped its skull in something like a bow. _“Our Talssenemai speaks through this person and greets you, Paladins. Your companion is perceptive.”_

“More than he'd like to be right now, but yeah,” Hunk said, standing up and returning the Hoshinthra's courtesy. “How've you been? We haven't seen much of you since that meeting on Halidex. Is something up?”

The Warrior gaped its jaws in what might have been anticipation. _“We progress well. Plans have been laid and are being implemented. This errand is part of that. Greater actions will be implemented in time. This person will remain with you until this errand is done. Aid will be rendered in the removal and transport of injured and afflicted captives as required.”_

“Okay,” Lance said, secretly grateful that they'd have help. “Will we owe you guys anything for the help?”

Bony jaws clacked sharply. _“Payment is rendered already by the errand itself, and by the acquisition of this station. The Scientists wish to study it.”_

“Fine with me,” Hunk said. “Even with the team helping, getting this place cleaned up enough to recycle would take ages, and would be really unpleasant.”

“ _Precisely,”_ the Hoshinthra said, unfolding a long arm and drawing a sharp claw down through the air, as if scraping it over a pane of glass. Even though there was nothing there, a sputtering spark of violent colors followed the tip of the claw, leaving a line of brighter air hanging suspended in space; a clean streak on a dirty window that, strictly speaking, didn't exist, and it took several seconds to fade. _“You are perceptive as well. Such concentrated examples are rare.”_

Lance stared at the fading line and shivered. “Thank god for that. Oh, right, and before I forget, there are some things we need to take back with us. Two floors down from this room is an office full of Marmoran blades and things. Those need to come with us, since Kolivan and his people will want them back.”

“ _Acknowledged,”_ the Warrior replied calmly. _“Our Talssenemai withdraws from this person; she wishes to bend her full attention upon the Ghamparva.”_

Lance remembered the zombies, the killbots, and the anguish that he'd felt emanating from the cell blocks only an hour or two ago, and flicked it a salute. “Cheers, and good hunting.”

“ _Yes.”_

It took a depressingly short time for the Hoshinthra to finish up, during which time Lance tried to teach the two soldiers, Kevaah, and the Hoshinthra how to play “I Spy”. It didn't go very well, since the soldiers were too frightened to pay attention to anything but the Hoshinthra, the Hoshinthra had its mind on other things, and Kevaah couldn't see the point. Everybody flinched when the Hoshinthra, who had been standing like a statue, abruptly clacked its jaws again.

“ _The primary goal of the errand has been reached,”_ it announced, _“there are no more living Ghamparva aboard this station. Removal of captives and requested objects may now commence.”_

Lance rubbed wearily at his eyes and turned to the two soldiers. “Finally. All right, guys, if we take you to one of the escape pods, will you sit quietly while we get it loaded and ready to go, or are you going to do something dumb and get yourselves killed and eaten?”

Hunk gave him a disapproving look. “Or option three—help us get the prisoners out of here. That one will get you kudos and probably cookies if I can keep them away from the ladies, and definitely not killed and eaten.”

The two soldiers looked at him, then up at the Hoshinthra, and then at each other. Sarge sighed. “All right, fine, option three. We don't have any choice, do we?”

The Hoshinthra lowered its long head to their level and grinned at them. _“There is always a choice.”_

“Just not many good ones, sometimes,” Lance added. “Kevaah, do you want to sit or to help?”

Kevaah considered that. “The room where you found my blade, were there others still living?”

Hunk nodded grimly. “A few.”

Kevaah gave the Hoshinthra a long, wary look. “Then I will help.”

Lance stood up and stretched. “Glad to have you. All right, let's just get you guys untied—hey!”

Lance was forced to stumble back a few steps; the Hoshinthra had pushed past him, shouldering him gently aside, two long arms snaking out to catch the soldiers by one armored shoulder each. The younger soldier let out a shrill cry of terror as the Warrior lifted both him and the sergeant off of the floor, seemingly without effort.

“Seriously?” Lance snapped irritably at the enormous alien. “That was rude.”

“ _It facilitates the untangling,”_ the Warrior said crisply, _“and reminds them not to misbehave. These are not your friends, Paladin.”_

Hunk humphed and propped his fists on his hips. “Give them a chance, will you? The Marmorans weren't our friends either, not at first, and we had to give each other that chance, and a lot of patience. They're part of the family now, and I'm happy to have them. Lance, you get Sarge and I'll untie the other guy.”

“ _This person wonders what you actually do with these creatures,”_ the Hoshinthra hissed as Lance unwound his bolas. _“You do not take the pelts, nor do you eat the flesh, nor do you practice_ pashtag'vok-tssshakra _bone sculpting, nor even do you bind the ghosts to your service. The Bold Spawnling has commanded that her pack take their surviving enemies alive, and then keep them for a time before releasing them. This seems wasteful.”_

Lance gulped, not liking that bit about binding ghosts at all. Or any of the rest of it, but he came from a culture that had some big taboos against necromancy. “Where we come from, we don't skin and eat people,” Lance said grimly, willing his churning stomach to behave itself. “We've got a few churches that have ossuary decorations, but they're rare, and binding ghosts is a big no-no. What we're after is the information these guys have got.”

The Hoshinthra grunted in disapproval, sniffing appraisingly at the sergeant's neck. _“It is still a waste. The truths these creatures carry are easily perceived, and then what? To keep them alive is to waste resources upon creatures that would have killed you.”_

Hunk cocked the Hoshinthra a puzzled look. “Perceive? Look, I know that you guys sort of traded your eyes for all the other senses, but I'm not sure what that means.”

Glittering black antennae fanned out, twisting in Hunk's direction, and it vented a faint huff. _“This person perceives that you do not. Our kind never had eyes, and so we are not blinded by optical sight. We perceive everything, including thought. Sighted creatures do not often think in layers; everything is right up on the surface, and it is easy to sense, once one has the knack of it. An example--”_ The Hoshinthra shook the young soldier a little, making him whimper in protest, _“This creature is called 'Arax', and it is twenty-seven of its years old. It is male, has been unsuccessful in finding a mate, and its progenitors sold it to the military for currency enough to pay a debt. It was transferred to this place along with the older one because they witnessed a superior officer illegally selling surplus military materiel on the black market. The Ghamparva are known to treat others of their species as disposable goods. If either of these two had made even a minor mistake, the Ghamparva would have destroyed them. You truly cannot perceive such obvious things?”_

“Nope,” Lance said, feeling rotten for scaring them earlier. “It's not something that most of us can do. Besides, if given a choice, most of these guys would rather go home than fight us. We'll take them to the _Quandary,_ Doc will give them some of his magic truth pills, we'll ask them all the questions, and then let them go home. That way, they're out of the picture without having to waste energy on killing them. It saves their families a lot of grief, too.”

The Hoshinthra considered that in silence, antennae twisting and coiling like the arms of a sea anemone, long enough for Lance and Hunk to get the bolas unwound and the two soldiers' arms untied. It put them down and folded its long arms back up along its shoulders with a thoughtful look on its skull-like face. _“This person perceives a truth; the more aggressive ones rise to command, and attack even when such an action is suicidal. The less aggressive ones are followers, and flee when confronted with an overwhelming threat. The ratio is approximately two aggressive individuals per ten.”_

“That's the way it pans out, yeah,” Hunk said sadly. “Unfortunately, they can improve that ratio a little with brainwashing and propaganda.”

The Hoshinthra hissed and stalked a few steps away, its clawlike hooves striking sparks from the decking. _“A common problem. Still, it is a concept worthy of meditating upon; if the aggressive and stupid ones can be made to rush at us, that will leave only the less foolish ones to breed. Perhaps, with enough time and predation, the race might be made less aggressive as a whole. It might be done in as little as a thousand years.”_

Sarge went pale, one hand touching the punctures that the Hoshinthra's claws had left in his armor. “Predation? You can't do that! The Emperor won't stand for it, and he'll destroy you all, and he'll do a more thorough job of it this time!”

The Hoshinthra grinned horribly at him. _“It may_ try. _The Empire caught us by surprise five hundred years ago. This time, we are ready for you.”_

Lance gave them both a dirty look. He was tired and sore, he had done a lot of serious magic; he'd been scared silly a number of times, he'd been exposed to a lot of evil and was going to see more of it soon, his lunch was starting to wear off, and he no longer had any fucks to spare for these two idiots. “Right, fine, okay, you're scared spitless of him, and he'd rather eat you than look at you. I get that. I just don't care. Sarge, put a cork in your propaganda-hole. Rudolph, can it with the thinly-veiled death threats. You're smarter than your granny's boys, but your manners aren't any better. Kevaah, no more Hulking out and ripping people apart. Now let's get this over with. We've got a lot of work to do, and it's not going to be nice work, and I'm tired and dirty and smelly and I want out of this dump. Understand? Say 'Yes, Mister blue Paladin, sir!'”

Amazingly, he got the full chorus from everybody, even if Hunk was grinning and all of the others were glaring at each other. “Thank you,” he said firmly. “Let's get this over with.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who shows us love for this mad work of ours, in whichever form it comes. We adore every single kudos, comment, and fanart (still freaking out about FANART). If anyone else out there wants to draw us something, please do, and let us know! Just so you don't have to wait two years to get us flailing!
> 
> And yes, the Hoshinthra are still freaking terrifying.


	24. The Importance of Keeping One's Promises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm late posting this. I know I'm late, and I have no real excuse. Spanch and I started playing Stardew Valley last week, and I will talk more about the insanity that brought into life in the end notes. Just know that we got distracted by the farming game. ^^;

Chapter 24: The Importance of Keeping One's Promises

_All the big hero-ing is done for the day,_ Lance remembered Pidge saying once, a long time ago and possibly even in a galaxy far, far away,  _and it's time to deal with the aftermath._

Aftermath was a dumb word, he thought as he helped to heave the last stasis pod into the last escape shuttle, but thinking about that word meant that he wasn't thinking about the other things that he'd seen during the past three hours or so, one of which was in the pod that his overworked body was protesting loudly at having to help lift. Some of the prisoners were in such bad shape that taking them out of the pods without a fully-equipped medical team standing by would have killed them. Lizenne was going to have to clone up a whole lot of... oh, holy crow, don't think about that. Seriously, seriously don't think about that, or about the machines and tools they'd seen in the— _no!_ Think about dumb words. Like aftermath. Did it mean something you did after math class, or the math you did after you'd done something else, or was it something that physicists felt after a really good... ahem... group research session?

Lance could practically hear his middle-school English Lit teacher's ruler smacking into her hand, the way it did whenever one of her snotty little students (himself frequently included) got a little too literal with the vocabulary words. Of course it didn't mean any of those things, as he knew all too well. 'Aftermath' meant all the fallout from some big event. Like, say, cleaning out a nest of bloody-minded killers. Staying to help deal with it might have made him a genuine hero, but he didn't feel like one. His sparkles were definitely tarnished right now, he'd thrown up twice at what they'd found in the labs, and there were one hundred and sixty-seven people who were going to need their brain implants removed. Plus another forty-six victims in the stasis pods, assuming they survived that long. Lance had done his best to repair the worst of the damage, and as economically as he could, but Hunk was out of granola bars and Lance had no more juice left in him. He'd only continued to help the others because he'd reached the point where it was easier to keep going than to stop. He was a real hero, all right.

Real heroes didn't get there in time to save everybody. Real heroes caused real damage, and lots of it. Real heroes could fail, and hurt, and die, and make bad judgment calls. Lance scowled at those faint echoes of Akazia's mockery and leaned his weight on the pod to hold it steady while Kevaah and Arax lashed it down. Real heroes stayed to pick up the pieces, he thought with weary defiance. Real heroes helped to put the pieces back together, no matter how badly things had been broken.

“All right, that's not going anywhere,” he heard Arax mutter faintly. “Can we go now?”

Lance glanced up at the young soldier, who was drooping visibly. Arax had been sick a few times, too, and even Sarge had broken down in tears. The Ghamparva had been using the pair as gofers, errand boys, and general dogsbodies; they'd never been allowed anywhere near the cells, labs, or interrogation chambers, and had taken the reality of what had gone on in those places rather hard. They'd known about the zombies and killbots, of course, and they'd overheard the Ghamparva talking about the scientists and their superiors behind their backs. Just not about any of the rest of it. Hunk had gone dangerously quiet and his expression had grown stonier and stonier with every victim they'd rescued, and Lance was willing to bet whole boxes of cookies that he'd laid more of those little never-work-again hexes all through the substance of the station itself. The Hoshinthra Warriors had certainly been watching the yellow Paladin with considerable interest, but hadn't bothered to stop him. Lance wasn't even going to ask. This place was Haggar's bio-lab all over again, only bigger, wider, and nowhere near as neatly-kept. And there had been no Druids. Lance privately felt a little cheated by that. He would have preferred Druids, actually. He knew how to fight those, and win, and they didn't leave ghastly messes behind them.

Technically, neither did the Hoshinthra. There were ugly dark stains and puddles all over the place, but no bodies. Even the three up in the comm center's anteroom were gone, and Lance did not want to think about what had happened to those, either. On the other hand, the thought of those killers having their immortal souls chained to Thssskrakos's service for all eternity pleased a small, vindictive part of Lance's mind very much. Some monsters were way, way worse than others.

“I believe so,” Kevaah said quietly, distracting Lance from his thoughts. “That was the last pod. Where is Hunk, Lance?”

Lance closed his eyes and checked the Lion-bond. “Next deck down,” he enunciated with an effort. “Working on something. Probably something to coordinate the pods, I think.”

Arax nodded. “Makes sense to me. The slaves aren't up to piloting them.”

Oh, god, that was true. All of the zombies had implants that suppressed any independent thoughts or actions, forcing them to follow a set number of pre-programmed routines. They could follow simple orders and perform routine tasks, and even had enough flexibility to deal with minor emergencies, but that was it. There were a handful of individuals whose implants would allow them more freedom, probably for espionage purposes, but those had been set to “mindless puppet” mode and nobody wanted to hang around long enough to figure out how to turn them back on again. Hunk had had to improvise a sort of remote-control device to get them all loaded into the pods, and using that thing to do so had been one of the creepiest things that either of them had ever done.

“Let's go meet up with him, then,” Lance said, pushing himself away from the pod, keeping his eyes carefully averted from the transparent panel. You think that Sarge might have calmed down by now?”

Arax shuddered, but turned away from the shuttle's pathetically silent cargo with relief. “Maybe. He's tough, but what they were doing in... I swear, we didn't know!”

He'd said that already, eight or nine times in the past hour, and Lance knew what he was feeling all too well. “Yeah. Zaianne hinted at what those creeps got up to, but she never came right out and said it, and we didn't ask for details.”

Arax gave Kevaah a look of desperation. “Your side, the Blades... you don't do that sort of thing, right?”

Kevaah had worked steadily the whole time, calmly and without expression, which was more worrying than if he had been raging. “Not really. Not often. Never to those that did not deserve it, and never in such a protracted manner. There are other, cleaner methods of getting information, although a few of us are not above taking our time if we should happen to capture a Ghamparva. Kolivan himself has been known to look the other way now and again, if a score has sufficient need to be settled. Certain allowances are made on a case-by-case basis as well. I'm a killer, and as mad as a bag of clams. I and my colleagues know this and accept it, for it can be very useful at times. I am using it right now, to put a great distance between myself and what a large part of me desperately wants to do. So very many dead swords, Arax. So very few live ones, and only just barely so at that. You mentioned somewhere that your aunt can help them, Paladin?”

“Lizenne. Yeah.” Lance suddenly wanted a furry purple space aunt hug, and right now. “She can grow new parts and attach them. She's good at it. Recovery takes a long time, but it's better than robot parts. Just ask Shiro. He was really happy to get his arm back, and Modhri had to be rebuilt from the ground up, and he looks great. Oh, god, now I want a Modhri-hug, too.”

A flicker of what might have been envy crossed Kevaah's face, but it was gone before Lance could be sure. “I will be sure to do so,” Kevaah murmured, heading for the nearby lift.

They found Hunk elbow-deep in the control panel of the escape pod that he and the rest of the group would be using, with Sarge standing by with three different tool kits. The pod didn't look any different from the others, but Sarge had assured them that this was the one “executive” model in the fleet, with a number of special features that the ship techs had probably been paid a great deal not to talk about to anyone else. Well, not to any of the rank-and-file Ghamparva, anyway. They'd apparently been perfectly willing to chat with an inconsequential gofer, particularly one who knew how to brew good horath on the sly.

“Seriously?” Hunk was asking him as he connected a pair of thick cables. “A budget that big, and they wouldn't spring for one?”

Sarge shook his head and handed him something that looked like the bastard offspring of a corkscrew and an adjustable spanner. “Most of the money goes for ships and training. Those heavy fighters don't come cheap, they only come from one Shipyard, and the techs from that one Shipyard are the only ones who can do maintenance and repairs. There's some sort of contract or other with them that even Lieutenant-Commander Tashrak won't buck, nor will his boss. I was told once that Commander Grolsk—that was the previous Commander, not the one they've got now—tried kidnapping a few of Nelargo Yard's techs once, and found out the hard way that Lady Ghurap'Han has ways to protect her intellectual property that his lot couldn't budge. The techs wouldn't say what they knew, nor would they lift a finger to do the work he'd set them, and when he tried to force 'em, the hexes that the old harpy had laid into 'em blew.”

“Blew?” Hunk said, looking chagrined. He knew just as well as Lance did that those had been Modhri's relatives.

“Blew,” Sarge said darkly. “Like detonated. Took out an entire service bay, six ships, all the techs, and everyone who was watching, which is why they've got a new Commander right now. Braxanth's got a lousy temper, but he minds his manners where strong witches are concerned.”

Hunk scowled. “We're going to have to get Keith on that problem. Hey, guys, all done? Where's Rudolph?”

“Wandered off after we got the last stasis pod down into the docking bay,” Lance replied. “Something in one of the labs got their attention, and I don't really want to know what that was. Everyone's loaded up, Hunk. Can we go now?”

“Almost. This pod is sort of a stealth flagship, and it already had a bunch of systems for controlling the others. Officer's skiff, right? Only most officers generally wouldn't use this thing to sacrifice the others to save their own necks. There's a whole bank of switches in here that can make any or all of the other pods self-destruct, and that's not the worst of it.”

Kevaah shrugged. “The lesser ranks and trainees aren't important to them. Why waste resources on dead weight, when one can use it to distract an enemy? Finding new recruits is much easier for them than it is for us, and they don't tell the recruits that part of their purpose is as ablative armor.”

“And in conclusion, evil.” Lance wiped wearily at his eyes. “I take it that you're bypassing a lot of the bad stuff.”

Hunk lifted the biggest pair of wire cutters that Lance had ever seen and applied it vigorously to a twist of cables. “Oh, heck yeah. Those guys weren't just crazy-evil, they were crazy-paranoid-evil, and I'm having to do this by hand because even the escape pods are evil. I swear, if Keith were with us, I could have cooked our lunch on his head while he burned the taint out of just the kitchen. I wouldn't waste my time on these things, but they're all that we've got, and I seriously don't want to have to ask the Doom Moose for a lift. Remember what happened when Pidge wired up the  _Night Terror_ with the invisibility system?”

Lance remembered that very well, although it seemed a gentle and tame event, compared to what he'd just been through. “Yeah. Plus, her hold's probably all full of snacks right now, anyway.”

“ _You are not wrong,”_ the regrettably familiar echoing whisper of a Hoshinthra stated, and they turned to see their dread companion stride into the bay. _“There is insufficient space in Mother's halls to carry your cargo. We will nonetheless escort you to the Castle.”_

“Good,” Hunk said, cutting another bundle of cables and holding his hand out to Sarge for a box of splicers. “We might need the backup. This is the only pod that's armed. I'll be done in a few more minutes.”

“ _You require further assistance?”_ the Hoshinthra asked.

Hunk snorted, connecting seven different cable pairs one after the other. “Not unless you've got a cow in your back pocket. That's how this whole mess got started.”

The Warrior's antennae canted back, and its skull turned at a quizzical angle.  _“A... cow?”_

“Yup,” Hunk replied, applying his corkscrew-wrench to something mysterious inside the console. “It's been three years since we've had anything like good cheese, so we were going to go and get a cow. Come on, you were talking earlier about how you can read minds. Perceive 'cow', why don't you?”

The Hoshinthra clacked a hind hoof on the deckplates uncertainly, and Lance and the others realized that Hunk had managed to confuse the creature. _“A domesticated herbivore, modified for intensive lactic production?”_

“And for meat, leather, and haulage, but yeah, mostly for milk,” Hunk said absently, pulling out a peculiar widget and handing it to Sarge. “Just drop that into the safe box, will you? Somebody rigged this thing to blow.”

Sarge hurried to do just that, placing the device very quickly into a big, heavy, reinforced crate and slamming the lid.

“You can make a lot of things from the milk, but the big favorite is cheese,” Hunk continued, pausing briefly when something in the safe box went _whump._ “It's got, like, a million uses in cuisines from all over the world, or just by itself as a snack. Just about the only places where it isn't too popular are the more conservative parts of Southeast Asia and China, but they're learning fast. I know that Shiro loves it, colby-jack especially, and Keith's all about the cheddar, and Lance there would probably kill for queso right about now. I'm a soft cheese fan myself, and I think that Pidge likes parmesan and gouda. Dunno if the Alteans had anything like it. Or if Galra do. Hey, Sarge, do Galra have a dairy industry?”

The Hoshinthra had listened to this little lecture with considerable interest, antennae spread to the fullest. _“It has been decided that we will obtain for you a cow,”_ it said before Sarge could answer. _“Where are they obtainable?”_

Hunk looked up in surprise. “Huh? Over at the Space Mall, in the Phanthur Sector, Tulilin Region, quadrant four. There's this little shop there called 'Terra', and you can get them free with purchase. The guy who runs it calls them 'kalteneckers', and you have to ask for a real one or he'll give you a robot. We've got one of those already, and all it does is stand there and look bored. Why?”

“ _This person has perceived 'cheese', and through this person, Mother and this one's brothers have also.”_ The Warrior licked its fangs with a pair of long, ragged-edged black tongues. _“We would experience it personally. The price of obtaining one is that you will allow us the first batch.”_

Hunk gave the Warrior a worried look. “Huh? Well, okay, I can make up one of the fast cheeses, mozzarella's easy and only takes about a half-hour, but you'll probably have to fight the team for it.”

“ _Challenge accepted,”_ the Warrior hissed. _“We will deliver the cow immediately after acquisition.”_

“Thanks,” Hunk said, capping off a fistful of live wires. “The Holsteins are good, but if he's got a Jersey or a Guernsey or even a Brown Swiss, get one of those instead. I insist on quality. The better the cow, the better the cheese.”

“ _Acknowledged,”_ the Hoshinthra said with a nod. _“You have completed your task.”_

Hunk nodded and screwed the housing back on. “Yup. It's a quick and dirty job, but I'll be able to bring the others along behind me without blowing them up. Okay, Lance, guys? Climb in and belt up, we're going home. Lance, I'll want you to get in touch with the Castle on your helmet-comm once we're in range. I had to chop out this thing's communications system 'cause it was full of code triggers that would have blown a lot of things up. I'll be too busy flying this thing manually to do much talking. You don't wanna know what they did to the autopilot.”

Lance groaned. “What is it with those guys and blowing things up? And when they're not doing that, they're cutting things to pieces and sticking bits where bits shouldn't go, or replacing them with other bits, some of which blow things up and chop off more bits! Why do they do that?”

“Compensation, probably,” Hunk said, stowing the toolboxes away. “The organization was founded to fight the Blades, with a side job as a tool of oppression. Remember what happened to the Chalep'Thoras? Most of the Blades are Blades 'cause of those guys. The Ghamparva couldn't match the natural awesome of our guys, so they had to be super-evil instead. Evil's easier than awesome, anyway.”

“Is that true?” Arax whispered to Kevaah.

“Parts of it,” Kevaah replied softly, and stepped into the waiting escape pod, taking a seat near the crate that held the recovered Marmoran swords.

Arax and Sarge joined him, Lance claiming the copilot's seat, and Hunk stepped out to give the pod one last looking-over. “Okay, I think that's everything,” he said eventually, “looks good to me. Anything that I should know about?”

The Warrior, which had followed along on this final inspection, shook its head. _“All hazards have been removed. You are as able as the Bold One.”_

“I kind of have to be,” Hunk replied in a low voice. “Dad always said that if you could do something, you owed it to the whole universe to be good at it. You coming?”

“ _Mother will follow as escort,”_ the Warrior said, antennae spreading out like a peacock's tail. _“Other Talssenemaia have come to claim this station.”_

Hunk hummed in acknowledgment. “You know, I've been wondering... what does that title actually mean?”

The Hoshinthra chuffed faintly, perhaps in amusement.  _“'Warleader' is the surface-meaning. There are other meanings dependent upon context, inflection, and tense. The actions of each Warleader add luster to the term. Words are living things, and they grow.”_

Hunk scratched at his chin, considering that. “Right. And I'll bet that it's got variations for each Warleader, too. Shussshorim's 'Talssenemai' is different from Thssskrakos's 'Talssenemai', right? It's older, and... well...”

“ _Barking mad, yes. You are very insightful.”_ The Hoshinthra grinned at him. _“The madness of our ancestress is well-documented and deeply-studied, and even honored where appropriate. We are of the same blood, but not quite of the same mind. This is necessary; variation is the key to advancement.”_

“That's genetics for you,” Hunk agreed, “and your scientists are experts, I've gotta say it. Maybe you should talk to Lizenne some when we get back. She's pretty good at it, too.”

The Warrior humphed.  _“The witch has already been perceived twice by the Mystics, and that was enough. It is better to keep a certain distance at this juncture. Your passengers begin to fidget, Paladin.”_

Hunk nodded, although he tucked away his strange companion's words in the back of his mind for later consideration. “Gotcha. Tell your mom to stay close, okay? I don't want any more surprises today.”

“ _She knows.”_

“Good.”

The trip back to the Castle was blessedly, wonderfully, amazingly dull. The pods formed up behind Hunk's as neatly as schooling fish, and the great glossy black bulk of Thssskrakos hung above them like a whale shark. It was a vast boost to morale to see the stars again, and to move among them, and a greater one to know that safety and comfort lay at the end of the voyage. The one good thing about the pods was that, being the property of an organization that could afford it, the drive was rather better and longer-range than the standard models. It took only a couple of hours to come within range of their destination, and it was with a shuddering sense of relief that Lance heard Allura's voice in his ears.

“ _Where have you been?”_ she demanded. _“Your pod vanished perhaps halfway to your destination, and we couldn't feel anything but the vaguest hints from you two through the Lion-bond. Coran has been searching all day!”_

Lance frowned. “But not the rest of you?”

“ _We couldn't,”_ Allura admitted. _“Not only were the negotiations very delicate in spots, but we had an Imperial fleet pass through the system, and we were forced to lie low until they left. We were just about to mount a full search-and-rescue. I will say it again, Lance; where have you been, and are you and Hunk all right?”_

Lance heaved a long sigh and glanced up at the rearview screen, where over a dozen blocky purple pods huddled under the belly of a vast black ship. _Minnows hiding under a shark,_ he thought, and followed that up with: _yeah,_ _I like sharks._ “We ran into some trouble, all right, but we dealt with it. Oh, and by the way, we made a few new friends, and tell Coran to warm up all of the medipods, and tell Lizenne to get her people-parts maker ready for some heavy use. We've got almost two hundred people with us who need medical attention, and about fifty of them need big-time structural work done.”

“ _What?”_

“We got taken by Ghamparva, Allura.” Lance glanced back at his passengers, and at the rows of zombies sitting listlessly beside them, and at the stasis pods lashed to brackets on the floor. “Hunk and I are okay, and our new friends are okay, but everyone else isn't. It's been a really bad day.”

“ _I will want the full story as soon as possible,”_ Allura said in a tone of voice that Lance had long ago labeled as “Royal Decree”, and he wasn't sure if he was up to giving her a detailed report. _“We've locked on to your signature, and—Great Ancients! Is that what I think it is?”_

Hunk smiled. “Like he said, we made new friends. Her name is Thssskrakos, and her boys are pretty cool. Tell Pidge to look out, they're smarter than Shussshorim's kids.”

Never before had the Castle's cavernous shuttle decks looked so good, so warm, so welcoming, so _clean_ in Lance's eyes. He felt filthy inside and out, and he didn't have the energy to run even the simplest of the self-cleansing exercises on himself. Even the air was sweeter in the Castle's bays, he noticed, once Hunk had parked the pods and cracked the hatches, even with the lingering odors of lubricants and the mysterious substances used to keep the small squadron of Altean craft in good working order. Even sweeter was the sight of his team rushing up to greet them, and it felt so good to be back among family. It gave him enough energy to heave himself out of his seat and stagger down the ramp, at least, Hunk and the others following closely behind. Sarge and Arax were staring around in wonder, he saw out of the corner of his eye, and Kevaah was staring owlishly at Shiro, Keith, Pidge, and Allura. Not for the first time, he wondered exactly what it was that Kevaah could see that everyone else couldn't. It didn't matter right now, he decided. Nothing mattered more than the fact that he was home.

Shiro reached him first, iron-gray eyes worried and reaching out with a strong hand to steady him. “Lance, what happened? Allura told us that you said that the Ghamparva had captured you two.”

Lance nodded. “Yeah. We lost the pod shuttle, too, and I don't think we'll be able to get it back. Hunk, can you build a new pod shuttle?”

Hunk sighed wearily. “Not just now, Lance. Maybe later, after we've gotten everyone settled. Oops, look out, incoming Doom Moose.”

Sure enough, one of the pearl-gray ovoids that served the Hoshinthra as personnel carriers had floated mysteriously into the bay, settling down neatly and splitting apart to allow a Warrior to exit. Pidge scowled, examining the approaching alien with a critical eye. “That's one of the new ones, like the ones we saw on their planet.”

“The very same,” Hunk told her. “They were a big help. Creepy help, but big help. They cleaned out the Ghamparva station in less than half an hour.”

Keith vented an impressed whistle. “The Military's not going to know what hit it.”

Lance shook his head. “They'll know, all right. These guys will make sure of that.”

Allura turned to greet the approaching Hoshinthra with a polite bow, which was returned with a graceful dip of the Hoshinthra's bony skull. “Greetings, Warrior,” she said with a smile that was only slightly strained. “Please accept our gratitude for the aid you granted to our captured fellows.”

The Warrior's jaws gaped in its dreadful approximation of a smile. _“Our Talssenemai speaks through this person and appreciates your words; the errand was mutually beneficial for all parties involved. For your part: that two Paladins were recovered without significant damage. For our part: the successful field-testing of the latest spawning against the Empire's greatest fighters. For the Scientists' part: the acquisition of rare research materials. For the part of those rescued: survival and a future. Also, items of significance were recovered that will do you more good than it will us--”_ one long arm unfolded and indicated a second, somewhat larger pearl-gray egg that had floated silently in and was coming in for a landing a little distance away. _“This will ease and facilitate relations with numerous difficult peoples.”_

“You are generous,” Allura replied, her eyebrows lifting as the egg disgorged the entire contents of the station's treasure room.

“ _Merely prudent,”_ the Warrior said indifferently, _“those objects will be better received by their corresponding peoples from your hands, rather than ours. We do not need them. In return, we will take these escape pods, once they have been emptied. They are contaminated, and will do you no further good.”_

“It's right, Allura,” Keith put in. “These reek, and it would take all week to burn them clean. It's not Haggar-stink, but it's really bad. The only reason that they got this far was that it was Hunk driving.”

“Got that right,” Hunk said darkly, “and that's not the worst of it, believe me.”

Before he could elaborate further, the Hoshinthra lowered its head to Pidge's level and gave her a big toothy smile.  _“Our Talssenemai greets the Bold Spawnling and transmits the greetings of Shussshorim as well. Are you as brave, she wonders, in the face of her mighty descendants?”_

Pidge gave the Warrior her best dirty look. Lance caught a motion out of the corner of his eye, and saw that Kevaah was backing away, and that he was staring in awe, not at Pidge, but at something invisible a good thirty or forty feet above her head. Whatever that was all about was quickly superseded by the fact that Pidge had reached out and grabbed the Hoshinthra by the nasal bone, eliciting a startled squawk from the Warrior.

“You bet your bippy, pal, and that goes double for the rest of you!” she snapped, shaking a bony skull that probably massed the same as her own torso. “I've still got a place on my dresser all cleared and ready to host a lucky Hoshinthra butt, and I don't care whether it's yours or one of hers. Got that? The stand's adjustable, and I could use a night-light.”

There was a faint sound of distress from Arax. “Is she really...?”

Shiro puffed a faint laugh. “Bullying a Hoshinthra. Yes. It's more of a game at this point than anything else. They're used to everyone being scared of them, and they're fascinated by her refusal to fear them.”

The Hoshinthra was trying to shake off her grip on its nose now, and she was refusing to let go; Pidge's sneakers squeaked loudly on the decking as it pulled her this way and that, and its antennae were flat back against its neck in consternation. She was also shouting threats and insults at it in a number of different languages, most likely gleaned from her six-month stay on the _Quandary._

Allura sighed. “They do love to tease her. Will you introduce your friends, Lance?”

“Hmm? Oh, right.” Lance swayed slightly, feeling every minute of a very bad day. “Guys, This is Arax, the nervy dark guy there is Kevaah, and that's Sergeant... I don't think that we ever got your name, Sarge.”

Sarge gave them a thin smile and an ironic salute. “Sergeant Brock, for all that the rank hasn't been worth anything since we were transferred. You'd be the other Paladins, right?”

“That's them,” Hunk said, and yawned. “Sorry. Us. We don't really look the part without our armor on, do we?”

There was a yell as the Hoshinthra lifted Pidge right off of her feet and swung her in a half-circle in an attempt to break her grip. Not a successful one, and the moment that her toes touched the decking again, she gave the creature's nose a yank that made everyone else's eyes water in sympathy. It was at that point that Zaianne, Erantha, and Coran entered the shuttle bay, with the mice scampering ahead of them to greet the new arrivals. The sight of them filled Lance's heart with an irreverent joy, and he grinned hugely, spread his arms, and said, “Ah, my brethren!”

“What?” Keith asked as Lance pushed past him. “Lance--”

Lance squatted down to gather up the four curious rodents with a heartfelt “Squeeeak!”

“ _Eeek!”_ they replied, hugging his fingers.

“ _Aaaagh!”_ screamed Sarge, lurching back and baring his teeth fearfully at the tiny mice. “You _are_ in league with those monsters!”

“ _Eeek?”_ asked the mice.

“Well, yeah,” Hunk said with another yawn. “How else would he have learned to squeak like that? Cool it, Sarge, they aren't any worse than that guy over there. Doom Mice, Doom Moose. Same diff, just ask any Gantar.”

“Those are worse,” Sarge growled, raising his hands in a warding gesture when Plachu whiffled at him. “At least the Warrior there can't run up your trouser legs, and the big ones will go right for the throat--”

Allura brightened up and asked eagerly, “You've seen mice before? More of them? Where?”

Coran had overheard Sarge's expostulation as well, and was just as keen to hear more. “Big ones, you say? About an arm's length from nose to tail-tip?”

Sarge stared at them. “Bigger, some of them, and bloodthirsty as a raging drevak. We lost half our number in less than a day to those things!”

Coran clapped his hands delightedly. “Ancients, that is good news! The  _Paswilq-_ class warrior mice were a very new breed, last I'd heard, and they were still working on ironing out a few problems with their reproductive ability at the time. It is excellent to hear that they're still around, purely excellent! Where'd your lot find them, then?”

Sarge shuddered. “You... you want more of those things?”

“Of course,” Coran said matter-of-factly. “Every Altean ship used to have thousands of the little darlings living aboard, minding the wiring and keeping unauthorized vermin under control. Couldn't do without them, in fact, and frankly, I'm surprised that we've gotten as far as we have with only these four.”

“ _Eeek!”_ protested Chuchule.

“Yes, I know,” Coran replied contritely. “You're the very best of the best, of course, we all know that, but you'll have to admit that we're badly understaffed. We're not set up to take on the Paswilqs, though; Alfor'd been talking to Grandfather about building suitable den space into the engine deck, but Zarkon went mad and it never happened. Hunk, do you think you could--”

“Later,” Hunk said, pulling off his helmet and rubbing at the back of his head. “We're tired and smelly and still have a lot of work to do. Hey, Zaianne, would you pry Pidge off of that Doom Moose and ask her to get the big drones in? We've got a lot of really badly-hurt people in stasis pods in those shuttles, and I'm not gonna carry any more of them today.”

Zaianne glanced over at Pidge, who was apparently trying to pull the Warrior off of its feet by its nose. As a result, they were both staggering around in circles, the Hoshinthra's hooves striking sparks from the decking. Zaianne rolled her eyes at her little niece's habit of playing with dangerous things and went to separate them. In the meantime, Shiro had noticed a travesty.

“Hunk, what happened to your hair?” Shiro asked.

Hunk adjusted his headband with a grimace of distaste. “Ghamparva. Remember how Nasty said that they liked using brain implants on people? Well, they do. Pidge?”

“Yeah?” Pidge asked, glaring at Zaianne for ruining her fun.

Hunk dipped something small out of his lunchbox. “Here, I got a present for you.”

“ _Yeeeeeeuk!”_ Pidge squawked in revulsion, nearly dropping the rag-wrapped implant that he'd handed her. To her other sight, it was unbelievably foul.

“Yeah, that's what I thought, too.” Hunk indicated the escape pods. “That was in my actual head, and I wasn't alone in that. Everybody in those shuttles has one, and we'll need to work out a way of removing them that won't make Lance cry. Oh, hi, Soluk.”

Kevaah uttered a strangled yelp of surprise, as did Arax. Two enormous, spiky beasts had magically appeared behind them and one of them was whiffling busily at the back of Hunk's head with his massive, scaly snout. Kevaah had to back away in a hurry to avoid being stepped on, only to bump into the other one, and he froze in apprehension while she sniffed him over. Her delicate little sneeze and girlish giggling did not soothe his nerves at all, particularly because he could see exactly what she was. He could see everyone for what they were, and he had found himself to be among giants. Now that all of the Paladins were together, he could see the titanic aurae of the Lions burning around them like many-colored fires. There was no one in this space that did not carry an aura of greatness around them, save for the mind-controlled and the two common soldiers. Even the mice carried a greatness about them, and the entire docking bay was insufficient to contain the massed aurae of this relatively small group of people. He turned his aching eyes to the two soldiers, hoping to find something more comfortable to rest them upon, only to find his vision arrested by an unexpected leviathan. Not as great, perhaps, as the wild colors of the Lions, but it went deep. A conflagration of burning gold and shadow, light and darkness and vast purpose moving, and at the heart of it a woman walked with all the pride and power necessary to support such an aura... as well as what was concealed within it. He shivered all over and sagged to his knees, something deep in his instincts yearning toward her.  _“Matriarch,”_ he whispered, voice trembling with awe.

The spiky beast licked his ear affectionately.

He blinked, glanced up into six fathomless blue eyes, winced, and looked away. There were two other women as well, shining with their own prominences, and he even knew one of them. Zaianne, he recalled, who had helped to train him and his brothers for a time before being called to duty elsewhere. The other one was completely unfamiliar to him, hard and sharp as razors, and the one glance she gave him held little warmth. He was used to that, he'd seen that same look in people's eyes since he'd first been decanted from the cloning vat. He was not expecting the warm hand that was laid upon his shoulder a moment later, however, nor the look of gentle concern upon the face of the owner of that hand. A well-grown man bearing golden armor in his skin, destiny wafting from him like perfume and a depth of knowledge in his eyes that Kevaah had never seen before in anyone other than his brothers.

“Easy, now,” the man said quietly, helping him to his feet. “They're a little overwhelming at first, but they won't hurt you.”

“You can see them?” Kevaah whispered.

“I have seen them,” the man replied, tapping one temple. “I fell into a very bad situation some years ago, and took significant injury to both body and mind. I think that I have seen some of what you are seeing now. I bear a ward for my own protection, and I am glad to do so, trust me on that.”

“That woman,” Kevaah hissed, pointing at the Matriarch, who had poked her head into the escape pod for a look at the other passengers and was now swearing loudly and at length. “Her shadow! Do you know--”

“Yes.” The man smiled lovingly. “My wife is a marvel, isn't she? She'll have a look at you soon enough, never fear, and I don't doubt that she'll like what she sees.”

Kevaah blinked. “Man, I am  _ghathri,_ and a vat's bastard. What interest could someone like her have for something like me?”

The man gave him the most beautiful, welcoming,  _accepting_ smile that he'd ever seen in his life, and it nearly broke his heart to know that it had been directed solely at him. “Quite a lot, actually. Lizenne has learned that such things mean nothing where intrinsic worth is concerned. You are a Blade, yes?”

Kevaah glanced down at the knife that he held in a white-knuckled grip, his only true possession. “Yes.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about at all.” The man looked over at the strange group that was now shouting at cross-purposes at each other. Even the mice and the Hoshinthra were making unsolicited comments. “You'll find your place quickly here, and you will be happy in it. Lizenne has a soft spot for wild hearts, being one herself.”

“I cannot quite believe that,” Kevaah grumbled.

The man chuckled softly. “Give it time, a good meal, and a night's rest. You aren't the only one on your last nerve right now.”

This was true. None of the team had taken the sight of the zombies or the poor souls in the stasis pods at all well, and Lance was taking their demands for more information with very poor grace. “No, I'm not going to talk about it right now!” he snarled at the others. “I'm exhausted, I ache, I stink, and I want to get  _clean._ Today, I have been a mouse, and a hero, and now I've had enough. I'm going to take a long soapy shower, a cold swim, and a hot soak, and pretend that I'm a mermaid for a few hours.”

“I thought you were a mouse,” Pidge said.

He glared at her. “I,” he said, deadly serious, “am the Trouser-Wearing Mer-Mouse of Veradero Beach, and I have sparkled in my own way.”

With that, he stomped off toward the lift, leaving the others staring in mild confusion behind him.

“Sparkled?” Allura asked.

Hunk shrugged. “Got me. I'm pretty sure that I know at least some of what the mouse thing is about—sorry, Sarge—but I'm not sure about the sparkles. There was never a good time to ask.”

Sarge was standing very still; he had Chuchule and Platt on his shoulders and was looking very nervous. Arax was holding Chulatt in both hands and looking bewildered. Plachu and the Hoshinthra were standing nose-to-nose and sniffing at each other, and nobody was particularly surprised when they both backed warily away from each other.

Zaianne blew out a long sigh. “That's irrelevant. Come on, we need to get all of these out and settled down somewhere quiet until we can deal with them. I assume that you've got a device for that, Hunk? Good. Lizenne, will you be able to do anything for those in the pods?”

“Eventually, and I'll need help. My lab's good and the _Chimera_ has a whole deck meant for larger projects, but it's just not big enough to handle this kind of volume. Not with any kind of efficiency.” Lizenne growled in outrage, and her burning eyes sought out the Hoshinthra. “You! Your mother will perform _Ssssaichak'vos Hsscharph-Chraal_ upon those Ghamparva?”

The Hoshinthra looked up sharply, antennae flaring.  _“She will. How did you--”_

“I asked, during the meeting on Halidex.” Lizenne glared at the stasis pods again. “Shusshorim was very forthcoming when I made it clear that I wasn't going to scold her. I wish you and your kin the joy of them, Warrior; teach them the error of their ways. Pidge, do you know if any ship of the Fleet carries a decent gene-lab?”

Pidge shrugged, but Zaianne raised a hand. “The Order has been buying Hanifor science craft of late, largely to study and cultivate some of the gifts you gave them from the envirodeck. Kolivan won't complain if I request a few of the more medically-oriented ones. Not for something like this. He knows a number of these people.”

“Good enough,” Shiro said decisively. “All right, everybody, let's get these pods unloaded. If we all pitch in, we'll be able to get them stowed by the time that Lance crawls out of the tub. Do I need to let him soak, Hunk?”

“Totally,” Hunk replied immediately. “Guys, I was only awake for part two of his adventure, but part one was pretty serious, and he found me and got that implant out of my head all by himself.”

Pidge winced, glancing at the nasty little thing that she was still rather gingerly holding. “Ouch. Okay, I'll go get the loading drones. You too, Doom Moose. Keith, can you burn off some of the bad juju?”

Keith stared dubiously at the grim cylinders stacked in the nearest escape shuttle. “I'll try. It's pretty thick.”

Modhri nudged Kevaah gently. “Come along then, if you've the strength for it, and we'll both earn our dinner.”

Kevaah sighed. He was tired, hungry, and he wanted very much to sit in a quiet, dark place for a while. “I was promised that much.”

Modhri smiled and steered him back toward the shuttle. “Our little pack keeps its promises.”

They certainly did, and Hunk was determined to keep his. He worked with a will to get one of the empty storerooms set up for the zombies, and to get them fed, cleaned, and settled down for the night. Each and every stasis pod was loaded into a designated storeroom for the time being, and he himself had set up the power lines to supplement the fuel cells that were keeping their occupants in a state of suspended animation; he had to remind himself all the while that this was only a temporary measure, and that help would come to them as soon as possible. Even so, he was very glad to see the last of the escape pods vanish back out into space along with the great black ship. The heap of loot was left lying where the Hoshinthra pod had dropped it. Nasty was back on the _Quandary_ , after all, and nobody had the energy even to look at it, much less sort through it. Erantha did insist that the crate of Marmoran blades be taken up to her room until they could be returned to the Order, but that was as far as it went. After that, everyone went to get clean. Hunk, in an effort to ease his aching muscles, nearly boiled himself in the shower, and when he reached the kitchen, he found Lizenne, Zaianne, and Modhri already prepping for dinner.

“Guys,” he said with tears of gratitude in his eyes, “I love you.”

“We know,” Zaianne said fondly, peeling roots with practiced efficiency. “Do you want to leave it in our hands tonight, or do you want to join in?”

“I'll join in,” he said, donning a spotless apron. “I made a promise to Kevaah. Where is he, anyway?”

Zaianne looked up sharply. “That is Kevaah, then? We'd thought that he'd died.”

“No, he's quite alive,” Modhri said calmly. “I gave him a good scrub in the training deck's shower room and then settled him down in the dragons' den with the lights off. He's overdone it today, and needs a little time alone. I'll fetch him when dinner's ready.”

“I owe him a cake,” Hunk declared, hauling mixing bowls and baking pans out of the cabinets. “I owe me and Lance a cake, too, and probably Sarge and Arax—no, wait, I promised them cookies. Hey, I'll make both, but Kevaah gets first crack at the cake. Something wrong, Zaianne?”

Zaianne was looking uneasy. “Bad memories. Kevaah and his brothers were very difficult students. I was not sorry to leave when Kolivan needed me for a field assignment.”

Hunk hummed, frowning into the sylth flour. “Yeah, he's got some issues. I'm going to try curing them with cake tonight.”

Lizenne chuckled and piled a heap of chopped paslen and phor bulbs into a baking pan. “I've heard of worse treatments. I'll want a closer look at that young man, and soon. There's something very unusual about him.”

“That would be just about everything,” Hunk said, dipping out just shy of enough sweetener; he intended to throw a few handfuls of morlaberries into the batter, and those would sweeten it the rest of the way. “He told us that he was lab-grown, sort of a super-soldier, and loaded for Druid. He can see stuff that we can't, I know that much, and I don't think that he's hallucinating.”

Lizenne raised an eyebrow. “Really? I will definitely have to look into that. I wasn't able to get close to him earlier, and we were far too busy to take the time. Do you want hitha in your paslen, Hunk?”

“Just a little, and add a dash of dekka sauce—just a drip, that's all it needs.” Hunk pulled a handful of eggs out of the cooler and began separating out yolks. “By the way, what was that thing you asked the Doom Moose... uh, saichak-vosh... something-or-other?”

Lizenne grunted and drizzled a fragrant sauce over the paslen. “The Hoshinthra have great talent with certain branches of aetheric science that I, personally, would not touch with a thirty-meter pole. A Warleader, should she find herself with reason enough to do so, can bind a victim's soul to her own... well, she calls it her heart. It's more of a power core, but 'heart' will do, and force it to serve her. Basically, it's a form of enslavement that is absolutely forbidden in over three quarters of the known religions in the Empire, and it should tell you something in that they can do this without reprisal from our own death-deity. That's what makes those transport pods work, Hunk, among other things, and those Ghamparva will be forced to serve Thssskrakos until she dies. I doubt very much that she will be a kindly mistress.”

“Oh. Seriously? Ghost-powered transport pods and drones and things?” Hunk asked, and thought about the station's stasis pods, the labs, and the prison blocks. “Good. Do we have any more trimblat jam?”

“No, Erantha got into it,” Modhri replied. “It's good on toast. I did make a batch of quillop preserves yesterday, though.”

Hunk smiled beatifically. “Modhri, I love you. Did I say that before? Well, I said it again. Just bring it out here, please.”

Between them, they were able to put together a very respectable meal, and one that was desperately needed. Everyone had worked up an impressive appetite earlier, and despite the fact that there was barely room on the table for everyone's dinner plates, there would be no leftovers. Lance had been summoned from the hot tub, and they managed to get the whole story out of him after he'd wolfed down two huge plates full of food. Lance didn't even bother to embroider on the tale. He was too tired to feel the need to impress anybody, and his own achievements didn't really need embellishment.

“Impressive,” Shiro commented when he stopped to reach for another slice of cake. “You did very well in there, Lance.”

Lance grunted wearily and bit into his slice, savoring the morlaberries. “I could have done better in spots. It got a lot easier once Hunk was able to help out again.”

“Hey, you still won,” Pidge said, bumping his shoulder lightly with a fist. “But what was all that about the sparkling?”

Lance snorted a bleak laugh and glanced around at the table. Everyone was watching him curiously, except Kevaah, who had spent the entire meal silently and steadily eating everything in sight. He didn't blame the man; Kevaah had spent the last three or more years on short, bad rations, had expended a tremendous amount of energy cutting a wide and bloody swath through a lot of very dangerous opponents, and had then helped to clean up the mess. He definitely deserved the huge slice of cake he was working his way through. Erantha was watching the dark-furred man as well, with an odd mixture of guarded interest and mild contempt on her face. Even Arax and Sergeant Brock, who had been very surprised to be invited to dinner instead of being locked in a cell somewhere, were looking interested. Lance had already explained his keenly-embraced kinship with the mice, but not all of it, and it embarrassed him a little. They'd have it out of him eventually, he knew, and he might as well get it out of the way while he could still drown his sorrows in cake. It was a really good cake, too.

“I was panicking,” he admitted, finishing off the last bite. “They'd stunned Hunk and hauled him away, and I was too messed up to do anything about it. It was definitely one of those 'what-would-role-model-of-choice-do' moments, okay? And you know how in posters and things for vid shows and movies, the heroes are always pictured with... sort of light around them, and sparkles? You guys do that, too, all by yourselves. It's all that natural heroism, and I've always been sort of sparkle-deficient. I had to ask myself what everyone would do, and mouse sparkles were the best option this time.”

Everyone glanced down at the mice, who had their own designated place in the middle of the table. Three of them struck heroic poses to demonstrate their sparkliness, although Platt had already stuffed himself and was flat on his back, snoring happily.

“Oh, come on, Lance,” Hunk protested. “You've always had sparkles to spare, right from the start. It was you and Blue that got us all out here in the first place.”

“True, that,” Pidge put in staunchly. “It was you who messed up Sendak enough to take him down that first time.”

Shiro smiled. “Those mermaids wouldn't have been able to break the Baku's control over them without you, and I wouldn't be here if you hadn't held it together in the Center.”

“You have made a vital diplomatic contact for us on Omorog as well, one that may well be very important in later days,” Allura added, “and made discoveries about yourself that none of us could have even imagined. You've been sparkling all along, and the only person who hasn't seen it has been yourself, which happens to be common in the truly heroic.”

“You wouldn't be the first to take inspiration from a really well-trained ship's mouse, Lance,” Coran said with a nostalgic smile. “Why, half the trainees in the Academy had to take remedial courses in heroic behavior. It's mostly attitude, although style counts for a great deal. You should have seen this little group's father. That mouse practically glowed in the dark, and hundreds of young recruits looked to him for an example, myself included. Quite an excellent mouse, withal, and a devil with a socket wrench.”

Keith puffed a laugh and reached over to tickle Platt's bulging yellow belly with a fingertip. “I've seen worse motivators, and heard Nasty planning out our training runs with them. These little guys should come with warning labels.”

“Got that right,” Sarge said darkly, casting a wary eye on the three still-upright rodents before glancing up at Lance. “You were doing all right when you knocked into us, and that's pretty damned good where it comes to Ghamparva.”

Lance gave him a puzzled look. They'd persuaded the two Galra soldiers to remove their armor, and in the simple, comfortable garments that had been made after the Gantarash invasion, they looked startlingly normal. “Decided to forgive me for that, huh?”

Sarge lifted a graying, bushy eyebrow at him. “I'm not dead. I've seen six kinds of death today, and they've all passed me and Arax here by because you gave them something better to do. A man can forgive a lot for that. And for a really good meal. This cake is superb.”

Arax shrugged apologetically. “He's right. You could have killed us any of those times, too, and nobody would have cared. The trainees even had a betting pool going, to see how long we lasted before one of the Agents finally got tired of having us around, and the winner would get to trade our bodies to the scientists for a crack at... well, never mind.”

Zaianne's face hardened. “It's just as well that they didn't.”

Arax winced. “We never knew for sure, m'Lady. They used to say all sorts of things in our hearing, and we didn't know if any of it was true. Part of their training was spreading misinformation, and we were handy targets.”

“I will want to speak with you later,” Erantha said in a dangerously bland voice. “Any information about their training techniques would be welcome.”

“It's all just bits and pieces,” Sarge said, a little surprised. “They kept us away from the classrooms. All we know is what we saw the trainees doing to the slaves, and sometimes to us.”

Zaianne shook her head. “Still useful. You'd be surprised how vital one single fact can be.”

“I'm not going to argue,” Arax agreed, stabbing his slice of cake with his fork before turning a grateful gaze toward Lance. “Thanks, by the way. If it means anything, I think you're a hero, and you sparkle like a champion.”

Surprised by this unexpected vote of confidence, Lance smiled. “You're welcome.”

He felt Pidge's arm around his back then, and Shiro's arm came to rest on his shoulders. “We think so, too,” Shiro said, warming Lance to his bones.

The others murmured in agreement, and their quiet accolades were as good as a ticker-tape parade and a medal of honor to Lance's weary mind, and they let him stagger off to bed without having to help clear the table first, which was in some ways even better.

Hunk supervised the cleanup more out of a sense of duty than anything else, and with two extra pairs of hands helping, it went very smoothly. Only Kevaah remained at the table, nibbling on the last slice of cake; despite the sleepy, meditative look in his eyes, nobody had quite dared to disturb him. Peace was rare for any Blade, and Hunk had a sneaking suspicion that Kevaah lived on the edge all the time. Eventually, when the dark-furred Galra was chasing the last few crumbs around his plate, Hunk sat down next to him and asked, “Better?”

Kevaah sighed softly. “You have no idea. I have never been allowed so large a meal, nor have I enjoyed eating one so much. What was this sweet thing with the purple things in it?”

“Cake,” Hunk said, mystified. “Morlaberry cake with thmee icing. You mean, you've never...”

Kevaah shook his head and pounced on a crumb that had been hiding under the rim of the plate. “Never. Any sweet at all was rare, and usually in the form of hard candy. A piece here and a piece there, as rewards for a task done in exemplary fashion. I have had twenty-three candies in my life, and two frintha rolls, and five imari fruits. And one cake. I liked the cake best of all.”

Hunk was horrified by this. In his opinion, nobody should go through life without eating cake at least once a year, and that Kevaah had lived his whole life without having had a single taste offended him deeply. “That's wrong. Cake is good for celebratory purposes, but sometimes you've just gotta have it, just 'cause.”

Kevaah snorted and lifted his plate, looking for more crumbs. “I am a wrong thing, Hunk. Made wrong, raised wrong, and trained wrong. I was not considered worthy of cake until today. What will Kolivan think of me now, I wonder?”

Hunk humphed. “He'd better be nice, or I'll give you his cake. And his cookies. He really likes mettic-paste cookies. Besides, I promised you a really good dinner, so he's got no gripe coming. Still want that tummy rub?”

Kevaah put the plate down and began to laugh. It was quiet and disbelieving, but full of wonder. “Yes, actually, and sleep. In a large room, I think, with a view of the stars? I don't like being closed in.”

Hunk smiled. “I know just the place.”

He coaxed the sleepy Blade to his feet and led him gently down to the main lounge, where the freshly reupholstered red couch stood with a stunning view of a starfield shining through the windows before it. Kevaah was perfectly willing to flop down and let nature take its course.

Zaianne, who had certain reservations about their rescuee, had noticed his and Hunk's absence and had gone looking for them. She eventually found them in the lounge, where a very odd sight met her eyes.

“Hunk, what are you doing?” Zaianne asked, staring in perplexity at her adoptive nephew.

Hunk kept right on doing what he was doing. There was a happy burp from the couch. “I'm keeping a promise. That's sort of important.”

Zaianne could not dispute that, not with this particular fellow. “Hunk, the last person who tried that nearly lost an arm.”

Hunk lifted an eyebrow at her. “I'll bet. And did that person promise him a really good dinner first, and then follow through on that promise? I'll bet not. All he has to do is tell me to stop, and I'll stop. That's more than anyone else has done.”

Kevaah burped again and stretched luxuriously, seemingly perfectly willing to lie there on the couch with his shirt off while Hunk rubbed his hands through the thick, black-amethyst plush of his belly fur. He still had cake crumbs on his chin and a happy smile on his face, his orange-gold eyes unfocused and dreamy.

“Hunk...” Zaianne sighed.

“You hush, this is a first-class food coma, the first that he's had in probably ever.” Hunk waggled a stern finger at her. “He was a huge help back in that station, so if he wants a tummy rub, he gets a tummy rub. He's had to deal with a lot of bad stuff in his life, and I'm trying to make it better.”

Zaianne looked as though she might protest further, but then shook her head and sat down in a nearby chair. “I'm sorry. Galra society is not kind to those who might be considered to be... well... _not of our kind;_ unnatural, or defective in some way. There are a few other peoples who can crossbreed with us, and the resulting hybrids are not welcome among the pure-blooded in most cases. Stunted or deformed cubs are often done away with shortly after birth, although most of those problems can be corrected in the womb these days. Call a man _ghathri—_ mutant, or _tchang—_ impotent, and he may be forgiven for trying to kill you.”

Hunk hummed thoughtfully. “Yeah, the boss Ghamparva got really upset when Kevaah called him that, and he told us that he and his brothers had been sort of cooked up in a vat. By them, I think. So, a lab-grown person wouldn't be real popular either?”

“I'm afraid not,” Zaianne sighed. “Most Galra wouldn't even consider a clone to be a person, much less a purpose-built series of them. Even I, who birthed a halfblood son and have worked with other halfbloods for most of my life, find that I still feel a little uneasy around Kevaah, here. I wasn't alone, I'm afraid. His and his brothers' origins made many of us... very uncomfortable. It's a deeply-entrenched part of our culture, I'm afraid, and the fact that they were a creation of the enemy did not help.”

Kevaah smiled impishly at her, eyes glinting with sly humor. “At least you're willing to admit it, Auntie. I am very unnatural, and very dangerous. It was designed in. I and my series were intended for mayhem, after all. It will take me some time to adjust, perhaps, but I think that this time I will enjoy the process. That's enough, Hunk. I want to sleep.”

To demonstrate the strength of his honor, Hunk put both hands in the air and stepped away from the fuzzy belly, an act that brought an appreciative chuckle from Kevaah, who then snuggled a little deeper into the cushions and dropped off instantly. Just to be sure, Zaianne and Hunk remained silent until they'd left the room.

“Poor guy,” Hunk said sadly, and then gave her a questioning look. “'Auntie'?”

She waved a hand. “Not officially, but I spent a great deal of time with his foster-mother, helping her with him. He used to call me that to annoy me, and I'm afraid that it did. Shameful of me, perhaps, but true.”

Hunk nodded. “Human kids who get a bad start in life react like that, too, a lot of times. They just can't believe that it can get better, you know? That anyone thinks that they're worth anything. Some of them are even convinced that it's their fault, and they carry that with them their whole lives sometimes. It can be really hard to break that, and he's got a ripe case. Keith's a little like that, but he's getting better.”

Zaianne heaved a long sigh, the old guilt over her long absence from Keith's life nipping sharply at her. “You may be right. He'll be a handful, but a worthwhile one, I think. He actually likes you, which is more than the Order had to work with in the beginning.”

“That bad, huh?” Hunk asked.

Zaianne nodded, her expression pained. “They were almost completely savage when they were first brought in. Two of them never even learned to speak, and the base we took them from had already been badly damaged from where a group of experimental females had decided to fight back against their creators, and had been killed for it. Taming those wild boys down to the point where they could start learning how to be people was difficult, and often unsuccessful. While they absorbed battle training very well, Blade discipline did not come easily to them, and most of them failed. Hunk... out of a group of twenty-six, Kevaah has only three brothers still living, and they are still very difficult to handle.”

Hunk glanced back at the lounge doors with pitying eyes. “Well, he did warn us. I'll just tell Modhri that we'll need to keep a lot of those granola bars on hand, and we'll work on keeping him as comfortable as possible. That really helps, I think, and Lizenne was giving him long looks all during dinner.”

Zaianne draped a fond arm around his shoulders and gave him a wry smile. “You're right about that. It's the Matriarch's duty to ease such wild foundlings into the pack, and she takes her duties very seriously. It will certainly give him something to think about. Marmoran bases are not set up for comfort, I'm afraid, nor for family, and the Order has little time for those with special needs.”

“We'll handle it,” Hunk said quietly, but the determination in those words was iron-hard. “We'll make it right.”

Zaianne smiled to hear that. “Good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lance finally got to hear things he really needed to hear, yay! And the Hoshinthra are going to get them a cow, double yay! ^_^
> 
> It should be noted that no Voltron fan should watch someone fish in Stardew Valley, or they risk making stupid comments to the player.  
> Spanch: *pulls up a fish*  
> Koko: *eyes wide* YOU JUST FISHED KEITH!!!  
> Spanch: ...wut?  
> Koko: *points to the screen* RED MULLET! Hey, wouldn't that make a good superhero name? Lance would totally run with that!  
> Spanch: Oh god, here it comes...  
> Koko: *as Lance* Faster than a raging Pidgie!  
> Spanch: *humoring the insane sibling* RAAAAAGH!  
> Koko: More powerful than a Chef Mode Hunk!  
> Spanch: *getting into it* I told you to SPRINKLE that parsley!!!  
> Koko: Able to leap tall Shiros in a single bound!!!  
> Spanch: ACK! I said no leapfrog!  
> Koko: A hero for the ages, RED MULLET!  
> Spanch: Keith would try to throttle him there.  
> Koko: Well, it's against Lance's religion to not tease Keith at least once a day, so...  
> Spanch: *sigh*


	25. Three Different Dances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here there be eye candy. ^_^

Chapter 25: Three Different Dances

The zombie sat on the floor mat, staring into space with all of the verve and enthusiasm of a forty-year-old plastic houseplant. According to Zaianne, he had originally been a minor bureaucrat on a rich and important planet somewhere near the Core Worlds, and had been an excellent source of information for several years before an ambitious rival had sold him out to the Ghamparva. They hadn't treated him at all well, and the red-furred Sorbrinthan male was a sad, scrawny, scarred echo of the man he'd once been.

“Last one for the day,” Shiro told his team, who were also looking somewhat the worse for wear.

They had met back up with the _Quandary_ and several of the Blade's ships—all Hanifor-built, even as Zaianne had promised—the better to process and treat the rescuees. Lizenne, thank whatever gods that might be lurking in the ductwork, had taken charge of the ones in the stasis pods, which just left what he himself was calling the walking wounded. He and the others had gotten the procedure down to a science over the past couple of weeks, but it was still delicate, exhausting work to get the implants out without hurting the victims. Doc, who had very generously offered his time and astonishing expertise in galactic medicine, had very strictly limited them all to no more than five extractions per day, three if one of their patients had one of the more complex implants. This had seemed like an unnecessary restriction at first; now the team was just grateful that it was only three to five per day.

“You forget,” Doc had said after their first session, “I have made a study of the First Mate, there, and have an idea of the limits of your people's strengths. Sustained effort is not the same as a one-time effort! You'll feel it wearing on you all very quickly. Now, drink your vitamin boosters, and stop work immediately if you start developing a headache.”

He'd been right, of course. Ophlica medics were only very rarely wrong.

Lance groaned and rubbed at his eyes. “Not feeling too sparkly here, Shiro. Guys?”

“Headache,” Pidge said, pressing her fingertips against her temples as if trying to squeeze the pain out.

“Tummy-ache,” Hunk said, rubbing at his belly. “That last one was pretty bad, Shiro.”

Allura nodded, and winced at her own weariness. Their last patient had been a tricky one, with not only a full sensory suite but a cluster of missing internal organs that had been replaced with a mechanism that hadn't been doing a very good job of performing that particular bodily function. While the alien would recover and even get a freshly-grown transplant in a little time, coming back to full awareness had been very hard for it.

“I can't do another one today, Shiro,” Allura said.

Shiro rubbed at his brow. “Didn't think so. Are you all right, Keith?”

“Not really,” Keith admitted. “Why the heck would they have wanted to take out that last one's guts, anyway, and just what did it do?”

Lance made a face. “Something like a gall bladder, I think.”

Zaianne, who had been standing by with a few of her colleagues to handle the zombies, leaned down to pat his back. “A _hothip_ bladder and its companion glandular nodules, actually, and they probably wanted to suspend it in a nutrient tank and attach a siphon. The fluid that can be obtained from that organ goes for nearly three million gac per fluid ounce on the black market. That's part of the reason why Tiombas are rarely seen these days.”

Hunk made a gagging noise, but Lance just sighed. “And, in conclusion, evil. Holy crow. I need a bath. Sorry, Zaianne, but we'll have to break it off for the day.”

She nodded, and gestured for the Blades to take the Sorbrinthan back to the waiting room. They also took the discarded implants, thankfully, and vanished discreetly away. “Kolivan is still busy with yesterday's group, anyway, and so is Doc. Get some rest, all of you; if you feel the need to take tomorrow off, nobody will complain.”

“Don't tempt me,” Hunk groaned. “Too late, you already did. Wow, I feel gross. I'm going to warm up the hot tub, guys, and if I feel better after that, I'm going to make some iced teral. The kitchen guys from the _Quandary_ had some fruit to spare.”

Pidge gave him a look of fearsome determination. “You will feel better. I will _make_ you feel better. Come on, people, we will go and make Hunk feel like a million bucks.”

Hunk smiled and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Just feeling like a fruit smoothie would do it. Yeah, that sounds nice. Any takers?”

A hot soak sounded good to the majority of them, but Keith shook his head. “Not right now. I need a walk or something. I'm all twitchy. Maybe a swim in the pool, later.”

Zaianne frowned at him in concern. “I was going to head over to the _Chimera_ and check on Lizenne's progress. Perhaps a run in the envirodeck would suit you better?”

Keith considered that. As the Purifactor on the team, he'd been burning accumulated evil out of each and every zombie for days, a project that was roughly analogous to building and monitoring dumpster fires. It was filthy work, and it stank, and he felt disgusting inside and out. Lizenne had taught him self-purification techniques, too, but he needed something more. The envirodeck, with its wonders and hazards, sounded just about right.

“Yeah, I think that would be good,” he said. “We've hardly seen her at all, lately. Is she having a hard time, too?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” Zaianne bared her teeth in distaste. “All of the ones in the stasis pods are in terrible shape at best, and many will take years to recover.”

Lance groaned.

Zaianne shook her head and gave him an encouraging smile. “You did your best, and that has been what has kept them alive. They will live, Lance. All of them, and all thanks to you.”

Lance managed a smile at this praise and was able to lead the others up to the Queen's Suite with something approaching a spring in his step. Keith smiled to see that; jaunty Lance was Lance at his best. Mopey Lance was depressing. Zaianne wrapped a long arm around her son's shoulders, and he leaned against her for a moment, taking comfort in her warmth. When she took a step, he took one with her, and together they headed down to the docking annex.

The _Chimera's_ halls were slightly cooler than the Castle's, and quieter, and the dimmer lighting was soothing to his eyes. He'd been more light-sensitive of late, and was starting to wonder if that was a little more of his Galra side coming to the surface, or just overwork. Maybe he should take tomorrow off, and just sleep. Just to sleep for a day, maybe emerging once or twice to scavenge leftovers from the kitchen. _Luxury,_ he thought, and winced slightly when they stepped into the _Chimera's_ brightly-lit clinic.

This wasn't the same room as the one where Shiro had been reconstructed; that, according to Lizenne, had originally been a private, small-projects-only laboratory, and that larger projects were performed one deck down, just above the envirodeck itself. In here, the walls were lined with tanks that ranged from small-dog-sized to full-grown hippo, and all of them had been draped with sheets for privacy's sake. People that Keith recognized as being Marmoran medics were checking readouts and adjusting controls here and there, with Lizenne herself in the middle of it, scowling ferociously as she peered behind one sheet. Her expression lightened somewhat when she saw them approaching, but she looked just as worn, angry, and tired as Keith felt.

“There you are,” she said. “How do things progress on your side?”

Keith scratched at his scalp, which itched. “Slowly, but we're getting there. You?”

Lizenne patted the tank. “The same. Thankfully, I have a great deal of help, and the ships that the Order has obtained are newer and better-equipped than mine. Many of these people were of great value to the Order, to say nothing of their own kin, and Kolivan is grateful to have them back.”

Keith's eyebrows lifted. “Are you sure that they'll want to keep working for him? After what they've been through?”

Lizenne shrugged. “They might not. That is their choice, of course. He knows that. Even so, each of them has gleaned a certain amount of information about their former captors, and so far, they've been eager to tell him everything. After that, I offer to blur the worst of the memories. Many have taken me up on it.”

“That was kind of you,” Zaianne said approvingly.

“It was necessary,” Lizenne replied. “No one should have to live with that sort of trauma. Lance relieved some of it with those little drams of healing power he gave them, but no one could have erased it all in one go.”

Keith nodded. “He nearly ran himself into the ground again. We're all amazed that he didn't kill himself cleaning out the labs.”

“Hunk was feeding him strength,” Lizenne told him. “One of the cardinal virtues of Earth-oriented aetheric talent is endurance. Hunk couldn't help the injured, so he gave his strength to Lance, who could. It was beautifully done, too; Lance never noticed a thing.”

“Should we tell him?” Keith asked.

Lizenne shook her head. “Let him keep this triumph. Hunk doesn't mind, and Lance needs it very much right now. My cousin cut him deeply, for all that she never drew a single drop of his blood.”

Keith rubbed the spot on his chest where a sword had gone clear through him and would have spoken again, but the control box on one of the small tanks _pinged_ sharply, and distracted Lizenne's attention. For a good reason, thankfully, and she nodded in satisfaction. “Would you kindly go two doors to the left and tell Modhri for me that Tank 6 has finished its final cycle? Zaianne, I'm going to need help prepping the main surgical theater; my primary assistant was called away to one of the other ships in a hurry.”

Keith nodded, turned, and trotted out of the room; he was grateful to be given this small task, mostly because he still had the occasional nightmare about Shiro's stint in one of those tanks. He'd spent hours watching Shiro's body being remade, willing the tissues and bones to grow faster, guarding him against whatever evils might come looking for his best friend while he was at his most vulnerable. While he respected the technology, the associations were bad, and talking to Modhri was the better option right now.

He found his adoptive uncle in what looked to be a recovery room, with dozens of cots lined up neatly, each one occupied by a sleeping figure. He recognized some of them as former zombies, freed in part by his own efforts, and was glad to see them resting comfortably. Modhri himself was seated by one such cot, patiently feeding someone small from a bowl of what looked and smelled like a creamy fish chowder of some sort. The patient itself was no bigger than a child, and all that Keith could see of it was a pointed, foxlike muzzle striped in green and yellow. The rest of it was concealed under a sheet of dull-gray fabric.

Modhri looked up with a tired smile, but didn't stop what he was doing. “Keith. Finished for the day?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah. It's been tough going.” Keith leaned against the foot of the cot. “Lizenne says to tell you that Tank 6 is done.”

Modhri brightened up at that, and turned to the shrouded person before him. “Hear that, madame? In a little time, you will not need my help.”

The small person vented a happy little _“Ah!”_ and ducked forward, giving Modhri's knuckles a quick lick with a purplish tongue before sitting back again. Keith blinked in confusion and asked. “What's in the tank?”

Modhri sobered, his expression going stony as he offered the little woman another spoonful. “Her eyes. This woman is of the Coelimi people, who value sight more than any of the other senses. Her eyes, or so she tells me, were a mark of particular beauty and pride, being a silver-spangled true green. A very rare color for her kind, and highly-prized, marking her as one favored by their gods. That's why she has to be kept under wraps right now—she mustn't shame the gods with her loss.”

Keith shuddered. “That's all that she lost, I hope?”

Modhri nodded. “She was a recent capture. They didn't have time to do anything worse, although there isn't much of anything that Coelimi fear more than blindness. Perhaps the gods are with you still, madame, for sending such a timely rescue.”

The little woman vented a faint trill. “Such offerings I will make on the altars of Hathata, Sequat, and Rani! For pride, pride's fall, and redemption, and to call down blessings on the ones who bring me to healing. Such offerings to Umag, Gronaal, and Ovor, for the punishment of those evil ones. A great offering also to Woro-Who-Sees-All, for the rightful triumph of the compassionate.”

Modhri smiled. “You're welcome. Did you need anything else, Keith?”

Keith fidgeted slightly, feeling the urge toward responsible behavior but knowing that he needed something else. “Is it okay if I go down to the envirodeck?”

Modhri paused, frowning slightly. “I'm not sure. Lizenne mentioned that it was late autumn down there and...” he glanced up at a timepiece on the wall, and the lines in his forehead smoothed into a thoughtful expression. “Probably. Chimera, where are the dragons?”

“ _The dragons are in the envirodeck, Pilot Modhri,”_ the ship replied promptly. _“They are approaching the rock formation.”_

“Ah,” Modhri said with a mysterious smile. “You can go down there, if you hurry. Head straight for the rocks at your best speed, and ask the dragons if you can stay to watch, or better yet, to dance with them.”

“More dancing? Modhri, the last thing I need right now is another round of Hokey-Pokey,” Keith said irritably.

Modhri chuckled. “It's nothing like that. This is far more significant, and it should be exactly what you need, if you pay careful attention to Tilla and Soluk. Now go, run, and don't stop until you stand among the rocks!”

There was a note of command in Modhri's voice that spurred Keith into a run almost without his conscious thought, and he sped to the lift as fast as he could persuade his aching body to go. As if aware of his urgency, the lift plummeted downward, nearly lifting him off of his feet, and he was out and halfway down the passage before the lift's doors were fully open. He burst through the doors of the envirodeck in a wild rush, lungs pulling in hot, dry air, eyes seeking the ridge of tall, vine-wrapped crags in the distance. Dry grass scratched at him as he charged through the faded yellow stems, seed-heads crackling down all around him as he made his way to higher ground. Even the simulated sun seemed parched and distant in a faded blue-green sky, the air thin and second-hand when he finally staggered to a halt among the huge standing stones, lungs heaving. Blinking sweat out of his eyes he stared disbelievingly at a much-changed landscape. It had been a while since any of them had come here, and everything looked to have gone dead. He'd left a trail of splintered stalks that was painfully visible, all of the berry thickets had shriveled up, and the blue-leaf trees looked sere and parched. All the water had gone from the marsh, and even the rivers had run dry.

“What happened in here?” he whispered.

There was a grunt behind him, and a broad, scaly nose nudged his shoulder. He turned to see Soluk standing among the stones with Tilla right behind him, both of them bedecked with broken grass stalks as if they'd been rolling in it. They did that now and again, he knew, to scrub off dirt and old skin, and to polish their scales when everybody was too busy to brush them.

“Hi,” Keith said, feeling a bit out of place. “Modrhi told me to come here, and to ask if I could... dance with you? I'm not sure what he meant.”

Soluk vented a thoughtful grunt and glanced back over his shoulder at Tilla. Tilla chirped and crackled back, to which he responded with a long series of rumbles and gronks that Keith couldn't make heads or tails of. In the end, the big dragon stepped lightly forward, pushing the thick mass of dry stalks aside and turning to face Keith. Mystified, Keith looked up into Soluk's azure eyes, unsure of what to do. Soluk held his gaze for a long moment, and then uttered a sharp crackling sound that he'd heard once before. Just once, back at the Center, to incinerate Sendak's corpse.

It had the same effect on the grasses all around them.

Keith jerked back from the sudden bloom of flames with a yell and stared at the dragon, who seemed totally unconcerned by the long tongues of fire licking up his legs. Tilla leaped into the burning grass as well, much as Keith himself would leap into the waves at a beach, frolicking in the rising fires. Soluk grunted again, winking his bright eyes to catch Keith's attention, and he took a few dancing steps away.

Keith blinked in confusion. “You want me to follow you? How? The fire--”

Soluk's jaws parted in a soundless laugh, and Keith stared as the flames around him took on new and wondrous shapes. Phoenixes roared up in showers of sparks and burst into blazing butterflies, phantoms of thick dark smoke turned faces of unearthly beauty to him before becoming ethereal winged things in the air; fire whirled around Tilla as the dragon danced, hissing around her like an endless length of blazing orange silk, sweeping lightly over her scales. Keith realized that the dragons were shaping the fires around themselves somehow, keeping the heat and smoke at just enough of a distance so that harm could not come to them. It was incredible, and he felt something deep within him respond to the sight.

_Can I do that?_ He thought to himself, and the only possible answer was:  _Of course I can._

He felt the approval of his Lion in the back of his mind as he stepped out onto the burning sward, feeling the heat of it push at him, wild winds rushing over his skin. The trick was not to catch and hold it, but to accept it, and to direct it over and around himself, like the wind in dreams, almost like flying. He smiled in wonder as fire slipped harmlessly over his bare arms like sun-warmed satin, smoke flaring around him like wings. Grinning, he left the jacket that had been the last gift from his father hanging on one of the vines, and his shoes as well, and when Soluk barked and ran into the fire again, so did he.

He was never able to describe what came next properly. The dragons danced and he danced with them, flames whipping around them in great bursts and streamers, sending fountains of sparks the color of treasure into the sky. He exulted in the heat, the pure hot cleansing fire; he breathed it in and let it run in his blood, burning away the filth that he had picked up from his labors in the past several days. He breathed it out like a fire-eater, like the legendary dragons of earth, burning his skin clean even as the dragons cleansed themselves.

When he came back to himself, purified, exultant, and slightly singed around the edges, he felt better than he had in ages. He had lost his shirt somewhere and his jeans were scorched to the point of cracking off; he was covered top to toe in black ashes in a matching landscape, and he did not care. He was aware that his feet should have suffered first-degree burns by now, but moving the heat away from them had become as natural as breathing, and he wiggled pink toes unharmed in a sea of embers. Tilla bounced merrily past him in a shower of char, her scales just as ash-blackened as he himself was, Soluk right behind her and butting at her sides. They wrestled briefly, throwing up great clods of scorched earth and making Keith laugh breathlessly before looking around for the rocks. Happy as he was, he felt the need for a long drink and a cool shower, and was surprised to see the rock ridge almost directly opposite them, far above his head on the other side of the deck.

Tilla bumped his shoulder playfully with her nose, heat radiating off of her in almost visible waves. He wrapped his arms around as much of her head as he could reach, holding her tight despite the spiny scales. “Thanks, you two,” he said in a dry whisper. “I needed this.”

Soluk licked his ear and offered him a leg up, and he rode back to retrieve his abandoned jacket and footwear in style.

Soluk also carried him back through the doors, and to a shower room on the next level up where he scrubbed both himself and the dragons clean, and received as his reward a pair of pants to replace his ruined jeans. They were too big for him, of course. They were a pair of Modhri's trousers, very long in the leg and equally loose, but they had a drawstring waist and were made of a very light and comfortable fabric. Keith yawned, feeling the need for a rest; he thanked the dragons again and headed back to his room aboard the Castle, feeling too good in himself to care if anyone should see him like this.

He was indeed spotted by the rest of his team on their way back from the hot tub, and they stared in speechless admiration at his muscular, lithe body, glowing with healthy color and dark hair gleaming, golden-ringed eyes dreamy and content among the sculpted angles of his face. He smelled slightly of what might have been incense and moved with the grace that dancers and martial artists shared.

“Wow,” Hunk said in a reverent voice as Keith disappeared into his room. “Guys, are you blushing, too? I'm blushing.”

“Oh, yes,” Allura said, her cheeks pinker than the markings there could make them. “My goodness. He said that he was just going for a walk!”

“That was a seriously good walk,” Lance said, staring longingly at the closed door. “I want to walk there, too.”

Shiro swallowed hard, having suddenly become very well aware that Keith was no longer the boy he had left behind on Earth four years ago. “He said he was going to the envirodeck. We'll have to ask him which part of it he visited later. Pidge, you're drooling.”

Pidge wiped her chin on one sleeve. “Can you blame me?”

“No,” Hunk stated, “except that now I want cheesecake.”

Allura knew enough about both Earthly innuendo and confectionery by now to sigh yearningly along with the others.

Kevaah drifted silently through the dim, unused places of the Castle, his steps seemingly aimless, but his eyes and mind were busily cataloging everything they saw. Everything, from the dimensions of the halls themselves to the best ways to infiltrate them; the multitude of vacant rooms and how best to gain entry; each and every service panel and how to get into those. It was automatic, unbidden, and built into his very substance. He had been designed and trained for this, had it hardwired into his instincts, and he could no more stop doing it than breathe the vacuum of space. He'd made a mental map already of the flight deck, the engine deck, the function spaces, and was working on the training deck now. He hadn't found the Lions yet, or the command center, but it was only a matter of time. After that, the _Chimera,_ and after that, the various ships of the Ghost Fleet. _Anything that will get me away from my own commanders,_ he thought sourly.

He'd already had his debriefing, during which he had endured Kolivan's air of stony disapproval and the wary, distrustful stares of Kolivan's lieutenants. He hadn't been expecting anything else, and had delivered his report in the dry, clipped manner that he'd been taught to use. He'd had considerable information to give, thankfully, although it by no means balanced out the losses that he had incurred by his rash actions. Nothing could. Nothing could, for all that he'd lost many years and the few friends that he'd made because of it.

They hadn't decided what to do with him yet, and he smiled grimly at that little dilemma. He was dangerous to keep and couldn't be dismissed from the Order, not with his background. Not with his face well-known to the enemy. Not with the Emperor's witch looking for individuals with unique properties. He couldn't be easily killed, and his perfectly natural reaction to any attempts in that direction would cost them far more than he was worth. He supposed that they could maroon him on some primitive world somewhere, but any such world would sooner or later come under the eye of the Empire, and that meant scouts. Scouts that he could kill and steal ships from, and the Order did not want to risk his vengeance, or the vengeance of his three remaining brothers. They would have to be abandoned all together to minimize the damage, or at least be deposited on separate planets, which just made it four times more likely that one of them would get loose. Kevaah knew their capabilities as well as he knew his own. They were identical clones, after all.

Kevaah toyed with the idea of vengeance. Was it worth it, he wondered, to expend so much energy on destroying both Blade and Ghamparva? Probably not. Far better to vanish out into the Fringe Colonies to find new lives of their own. Could they do that, he wondered; they, who had been purpose-built and trained for nothing but warfare? Could they pick up a shovel, a fishing rod, a pen, a measuring tape, and _not_ use it to kill someone? He didn't know. Neither would the others. They were caught in a cage made from their own bones, and there was no way out.

He had lost too many years as well. How long had the Ghamparva had him? He didn't know, and his superiors hadn't found it necessary to tell him. Things had changed, he knew that. He would find the command center of this ship and access the records. Perhaps he would ask Zaianne, who had tried very hard to be kind to him when he was new. Perhaps he would ask Lance or Hunk, who had kept their promises.

His hand sought out the knife hanging at his hip in its new sheath from his equally new belt, and fingered the fabric of his new clothing. Lance had taken him to a tailoring room and had bidden him to stand still under the scanner, and had made up several sets of clothing that fit very well. Soft, strong fabrics with sturdy seams, forgiving of sudden, violent activity... and very stain-resistant. Kevaah smiled. They had known him and accepted him in a very short time, and it was still a very novel experience. Idly, he wondered where the Matriarch was, and her man. A man who had looked upon him like a true uncle would, if it were possible for him to have uncles, and something deep within him yearned to see that again, blood and bone.

Kevaah scowled at himself. Mere gratitude for the rescue of the Paladins, he told that wanting place within him firmly. Gratitude could not be trusted, it evaporated like morning mist, leaving nothing but disappointment behind. He'd learned that the hard way, again and again, and knew that he could not expect anything different this time. The man would disavow his favor and the Matriarch would not deign to see him, and that certainty soured his mood more than he had expected it would.

He passed by the roomful of muddled bedding that he now knew to be the dragon's den, where he had spent those first blessedly quiet hours before that incredible first meal (cake! What a wonderful discovery!), and continued onward in surly silence. Perhaps a little exercise in one of the nearby training rooms would work off his temper; the red Paladin—Keith, he thought the young man's name was—had mentioned gladiator drones. Perhaps ripping one of those apart would relieve some of his irritation.

He found the main training room easily, with its high ceiling and white paneling. _White,_ he thought grumpily, Alteans were as obsessed with that color as his own kind were with purple. Was a little variation, perhaps a nice ombre blending of colors, so completely out of the question? Perhaps he should take up painting, and splatter wild colors all over the walls out of sheer frustration and call it Art. He would probably earn himself several prestigious awards and a scolding from the Princess. With a sigh, he set himself to ignore the monochrome habit of his surroundings and began a series of stretches to limber up his twitching muscles. He would never make a good office worker, he thought solemnly. He needed to run, to hunt, to--

Something sharp and dark hissed past his ear, and he threw himself to one side as someone slammed into being before him, catching the thrown knife as easily as she'd cast it. The youngest Galra female aboard, a fellow Blade, Zaianne's junior. Erantha, he recalled, who watched everything around her with icy eyes, silver aura like light on bright blades. Beautiful, but like a sword was beautiful, without warmth or softness.

“I greet you, and wish you well, colleague,” he said with polite formality, largely because he knew that it annoyed people. They didn't expect such pretty manners from things like him, and it upset their sense of self-righteousness. “Do you wish the use of this training room?”

“I do,” she replied bluntly, narrowing her eyes dangerously at him. “The Paladins say that you have killed many Ghamparva.”

“I have,” he replied with quiet pride. “Forty-six this last time, including a Lieutenant-Commander and his personal flunkies. Thirty-seven on the previous escape attempt, and they used those two common soldiers as bait to recapture me. I call a foul on that; Brock and Arax are not bad men. Eighteen the time before that, and I defend that poor score by saying that I had been filled up to the gills with poisons at the time. Fifty-two on the preceding attempt, and sixty-one before that. That one hardly counts, I feel, as I had gotten into the trainee barracks, and they were too busy tripping over each other to put up a proper fight. The one before that... I do not recall the number exactly. I was supernally angry, and had not intended to stay.”

Erantha scowled at him. “No Blade allows anger to cloud his thoughts.”

“They had taken my foster-mother, my Lady,” Kevaah said in a flat, dangerous voice. “They made me watch while they killed her, and they were not quick about it. I had a right to my fury.”

“I concede the point,” Erantha said in a slightly softer tone. “I would test your skill myself.”

“I will allow it,” he murmured, drawing his knife. “I warn you, I do not hold back. There is a reason why I train alone.”

Erantha gave her chin that proud lift so indicative of a powerful woman. “Good.”

He flashed into motion without further warning, and she responded instantly as a properly-trained Blade should.

“Kolivan might not approve of this,” Modhri observed as he and Lizenne made their way toward the training deck. “He does value his men.”

“Not that one,” Lizenne replied, “or he values the poor fellow like a general values a doomsday weapon, one stolen from an enemy and which he does not quite know how to use—too damned dangerous to keep and too damned valuable to get rid of. If we can do well by this one, he'll hand me the other three as a birthday present, complete with pink ribbons tied around their necks! If we can just hold Kevaah steady until the envirodeck recovers, that will help. The dragons want to see how well he fits into the landscape, and fortunately, that won't take long. The Elders want him, and his brothers if at all possible, Modhri.”

Modhri's eyebrows went up. “Do they?”

She nodded. “Not for the current affairs, but for later ones. They wouldn't make the effort to contact our dragons for anything unimportant, and we're to get him habituated to Zampedran conditions as soon as possible. Again, an easy task. Tilla says that the Burning went very nicely, and it certainly gave Keith a boost. That was well done, by the way.”

He flashed her a sly glance. “I've studied, you know, as much as I have been able to. Fire-mages need this sort of thing now and again, and the timing was too good to miss. Will you take Lance in to see the start of winter, and when?”

“A few more days, and yes. Soluk says that Keith's help gave the deck a nine-day start, which is very auspicious. We should start getting healthy growth almost instantly. I would have started another yulpadi, or a few thratamnae, or even an ornipal by now, but...”

Modhri nodded. He knew very well how full each and every cloning tank was right now, even the one in the small lab. “Later. Let the small beasts have their day for now. Perhaps Kevaah will agree to be our apex predator for a little while, hmm?”

“It would do him good.” Lizenne paused for a moment, listening intently. “Ah. There he is.”

Modhri listened to the faint sound of blade on blade that was coming from one of the big sparring rooms. “Hm. Are you sure that it's him?”

“Oh, yes, and probably Erantha,” Lizenne smiled wryly. “I've sparred with everybody aboard but him, and I know their rhythms. Goodness, he's fast. Fast enough to match that proud young woman, even with her little tricks.”

Modhri chuckled. “Good. She's been getting a touch overconfident. The Paladins are improving, but they're still mostly Human, and haven't been able to give her a proper challenge.”

“Except Shiro,” Lizenne corrected him with a grin. “Didn't they tell you about that?”

“Yes, they did,” Modhri murmured cheerfully. “Let's go and see if this match is worth risking the ire of the Techno-Mousie, shall we?”

What they found a few minutes later were two over-trained fighters apparently doing their very best to kill each other. Clothing had been torn and lay in shreds around the room, and spatters of dark blood speckled the white decking. There was a strong odor of sweat, ozone, and charred fur in the air, and the whole area hummed with residual magic and live fury. Tufts of fur rolled here and there around the floor as well, testament to near-misses and lucky strikes. The two combatants were still at it despite heaving lungs and trembling limbs, eyes glowing hot with violent emotion, fangs bared in fearsome grimaces. Both of them were leaking blood from numerous cuts, all shallow, none serious. This was good; Modhri didn't really want to have to be the one to report a maiming or a death to their Commander.

Instead, he leaned against the doorframe and chided gently, “Children,” in the most avuncular voice that he could muster.

It had the desired effect. Neither of them were old enough for the habits of childhood to have been entirely forgotten, and they both jerked in surprise and stopped what they were doing, glancing up guiltily at the newcomers. Modhri waved a hand, arresting their attention.

“Very impressive,” he said, “although Lance will no doubt give you a scolding for ruining the nice outfits that he so kindly made up for you.”

They winced at that. Kevaah's shirt was in pieces all over the floor, and roughly half of his trousers as well. Erantha's outfit looked as though it had been put through a threshing machine twice. Erantha tried to put a bold face on it. “It was only the training set.”

Kevaah shrugged, not bothering to excuse his actions. “I will apologize, and ask for a few sets made from something disposable. Simple smocks, perhaps. I'm used to those.”

That was a challenge of sorts, and Modhri wisely left his wife deal with it.

“Perhaps,” she said in a cool tone that made Kevaah look away, and then followed that with something that made his eyes flash back to her face. “Although I would have my nephew dress better than that, even when training.”

Modhri was hard-pressed to keep from bursting out into laughter at both Erantha's and Kevaah's expressions. It wasn't funny, it really wasn't, but she couldn't have surprised them more if she'd turned them into furblits. Such unsought adoptions of adult men were rare, and adopting a vat's bastard was nearly unheard-of.

“ _Nephew?”_ Kevaah squeaked.

Lizenne held up a warning hand, flicking a hard glance at Erantha, who had been about to protest and now wilted under her gaze. “Nephew. The Blade does not care for you properly, and your prospects among them are poor. You have no chance for peace within the Empire, and I doubt that you took your Oath to the Order willingly.”

Kevaah frowned at his toes. “We were given no other choice.”

“An oath made under duress is not valid,” Lizenne continued, “and Kolivan does not recognize the value of what he has. As my nephew, you will have both privileges and obligations that you have never had before, and I will require you to respect both. The Paladins will be your brothers and sisters. Zaianne will be your aunt, and Modhri your uncle, and Coran holds status as an uncle as well. Shiro is Hekabar'Harcho, and you will treat him as such. I cannot offer you motherhood, as I am not a mother yet, but you will have the rest... should you wish to accept it.”

Kevaah swayed on his feet, pale under his fur. Her words were shocking, impossible, unbelievable, and something that he'd yearned for for most of his life. “Should I wish... Matriarch, you offer me everything that I could ever want, and you think that I might turn it down?”

She nodded. “Easily. You have no reason to trust us, and I will admit that this is too soon, and too sudden, and at a bad time. If I wait, however, the opportunity will be lost. You make Kolivan and the others uneasy, and they'll probably see fit to drop you into a war zone somewhere in the hope that someone will put you down at last if I don't move now. I've already had to rebuild my husband and one nephew practically from scratch; I will not willingly do it a third time. It's up to you. You are young, but grown, and it's time that you started making your own choices. I know that you will have difficulty in believing me; I am aware of just what I will gain if you choose to become a member of my Pack, and that you have no idea at all. Go ahead and voice your suspicions, Kevaah. Let's get them out in the open before they have time to fester.”

Kevaah wavered helplessly for a moment, but pulled himself together enough to give her a distrustful look. “You are a geneticist. You will sample me and use it to further your own research.”

She smiled. “Not without your express permission. I would like to give you a lot of little cousins to look after, but not like that. Your blood and flesh are your own, and I do not steal.”

Kevaah fidgeted, and rubbed at a cut on his waist that had already mostly healed. “You will use me as a hunting animal, and send me after your enemies.”

Lizenne sniffed primly. “Absolutely not. My enemies are Haggar and Zarkon, and their deaths are  _mine._ I have a bone spear that will seek their blood all by itself, and I need no other assassin.”

“You will keep me as your pet spy, to send out like a drone to get you information!” Kevaah accused.

Lizenne rolled her eyes. “Please. Pidge has both the Order and the Fleet eating out of her hand. What need have I for spies?”

Kevaah blinked, at a total loss. “You will sacrifice me to the dragons.”

“They can't digest Galra, and would rather play ball games with you.”

“You will exhibit me as a curiosity.”

“Have you seen the crew of the _Quandary?_ To them, you're just another Galra.”

“You will use me as a source of power, to further your magic.”

“Don't be silly. The dragons won't permit it. I belong to them, not the other way around.”

Kevaah gave her a pugnacious look. “You want a gladiator-slave to spar with.”

Lizenne smirked. “Technically, I already have three. Keith, Shiro, and Modhri have all fought in the arena.”

Kevaah scowled and glanced at Modhri. “You want a fresh young lover.”

Amazingly, neither Modhri nor Lizenne took offense at that staggering insult, although Erantha choked a bit. Lizenne merely gazed pityingly at him. “A lover? Kevaah, you are Galra; not a sample in a test tube, not an alien, not a machine. Above all, you are not a slave. If you knew anything of love, young man, you would know that such a thing would be impossible. If you believe otherwise, your teachers were in error.”

Kevaah shivered. “You truly want me as family?”

“I would not offer it if I did not.”

Kevaah stood very still for a time, and then looked up. “What's the catch?”

Lizenne chuckled. “That you will have to continue with us and learn to behave yourself in mixed company. You will have to put up with patently ridiculous situations, frequent bouts of heroism, the occasional multitude of peculiar guests, the odd cosmic mystery, and probably grand battles on a regular basis. How you will fit into this glorious mess, I have no idea. Perhaps Hunk will teach you how to cook, which is a very portable skill. Eventually, you might seek your own destiny after all of this crashing around is over; I certainly intend to do so, and I know precisely where I am going to do it. Whether or not you come along is entirely up to you.”

Kevaah's knife slipped from his hand to clatter onto the floor, and he stumbled forward, falling to his knees and wrapping his arms around Lizenne's waist. “I accept,” he said, tears running down his face. “Ah, gods, Matriarch, my Aunt, I accept.”

She stroked his fur gently, running her fingers through the thick blue-roan plush. “Very well, my nephew,” she murmured softly, “and you may tell Kolivan from me that if he or any of his underlings try to get you killed again, I will be _very put out_ with them.”

That was not a small threat, he knew, and he burst into creaking laughter even as tears dripped from his chin. He buried his face in her middle, breathing in her scent.

Lizenne looked over at Erantha, silently daring her to protest. Erantha gestured a wry negative; she was not going to touch this and knew better than to try. She did raise an eyebrow at Modhri, a query as to whether or not he agreed with this, to which the man replied with a calm nod and a possessive hand laid on one trembling, dark-furred shoulder. The choice had been made.

Lotor stood poised, weight balanced lightly on the balls of his feet, sword drawn and ready; cool and collected, he watched his opponent with scornful eyes. The other man was older, bigger, burly, shaggy, and slightly overweight. He was also having trouble controlling his temper, which was always an advantage for an enemy. Garrison Fleet Commander Thrakam was not used to having anyone challenging his authority, much less—Lotor sneered inwardly at the memory of the man's insulting words—a skinny, inbred pretty-boy marked for death by his own father. Skinny he would grant, when compared to the hulking Commander; his Namturan-Simadhi blood had made him slim and whipcord-supple. Pretty, he would admit to as well, a gift from those same genes. Inbred, not so much; he'd seen his own gene-chart, and his ancestry was properly diverse. Marked for death... well, that was only partially true. He knew very well that if Haggar ever got her hands on him, death would only be the last in a long line of things that he would experience. It was not going to happen. He would not permit it to happen, and facing down this foul-mouthed animal was part of that. He needed to rebuild his fleet, and for that, he needed warships. Many warships, and while these little Fringe outposts might boast only a few suitable craft each, they were easy targets. His Imperial father did not waste his best officers on the Fringe colonies, and none of those fools could resist a direct challenge. All he had to do to get their attention was to invoke the Right of Challenge, and the silly idiots jumped at it every time. All right, so he'd had to blow up the Governor's Offices a few times to keep a higher authority from interfering, but the Garrison Commanders had never disappointed him.

Thrakam's Captains were watching, of course, a little island of worried silence among the noisy throng of their ships' crews. What Lotor and Thrakam were doing was legal, even traditional, and if their man lost, they would have no choice but to switch allegiances. That meant that if Lotor's bid for survival failed, they would all face execution for treason against the Throne. Oh, they had the right to challenge Lotor as well, one after the other if need be, but how many of them would he kill before one of them got lucky? There was a reason that Thrakam was Commander, and he hadn't achieved his rank by peaceable means.

_He'd probably done it by this same method,_ Lotor thought, watching the man taking a few practice swings with an enormous, jagged-edged sword,  _and thinks that he can take me on as well. The man probably hopes to win Father's favor by taking me alive. Fool._

Thrakam let out a fearsome bellow and charged, swinging that oversized sword in a massive overhand slash. Lotor melted out of his way with a sigh. He'd faced a number of men recently who'd fought like just this, all mad screaming rushes and attempts to use their swords as bludgeons. No finesse, no grace, no strategy, just brute strength and fury. Lotor glanced at the huddle of Captains and decided to show off just a little.

He toyed with the Commander for a time, making him look like the ugly, uncoordinated hulk that he was, leaving shallow but painful cuts along the man's arms and legs. In the end, Thrakam was frantic with wrath, eyes feral, jaws foaming, as unthinking as any enraged beast. Lotor paused for just a moment, inspiring the creature to raise his heavy weapon over his head to smash the smaller foe to jelly. Almost casually, as if this were no more than a tedious chore, Lotor stepped in and ran the man through. A gout of blood burst from Thrakam's mouth, and he shuddered, the sword falling from nerveless fingers. He fell, lifeless, from that single strike to the heart. Lotor stepped back, raising his own silver blade. _“Vrepit Sa!”_ he called out: the Killing Strike. The Challenge was over, and now Lotor was rightful Commander of the Garrison. The Captains bowed to him and his men cheered, and he now had a fleet of twenty-five ships to pick through.

“Good fight, sir,” Tilwass said behind him, and Lotor turned to accept his sword belt from the man, and a cloth to wipe his sword clean on. “I've already had a talk with the Captains. Most of 'em will follow without too much griping, but the rest are a shifty bunch and will probably try to sell you out to the Emperor. I've made a list of who's who.”

Lotor nodded, polishing his sword, sheathing it, and buckling the belt so that the blade hung prominently at his hip. “Good. How do their craft look?”

Tilwass waggled a hand. “Maybe half of them will do. They've got ten heavy destroyers, but three of those haven't been kept up properly, and one has bad engine trouble. The other fifteen are smaller grades, some in better shape than others.”

Lotor frowned. “Battle damage?”

Tilwass gestured a negative. “Laziness and neglect, mostly. The planet below has been subjugated for long enough that the natives haven't got any fight left in them, and it's an isolated system with one of those big empty spots within spitting distance of the outer orbits. It's _dull_ out here, sir, and it's awfully hard to maintain discipline when you're bored out of your skull.”

Lotor humphed. “Can they be brought up to strength quickly?”

“Some.” Tilwass shrugged. “Even with the Nelargo team working on them, we'll probably have to leave some behind. I really don't like the look of the one with the bad engine.”

“Then we will leave it,” Lotor said, turning his back on the cooling corpse and striding out of the ring. “How do the trainee techs progress, by the way?”

“Better,” Tilwass told him. “Old Marzad hasn't had to throw a wrench at anybody for days now, and the ship's never run smoother. Right now, he's got the trainees reprogramming the repair drones to not only patch up all of those old ships, but give them upgrades while they're at it. Marzad says that it was something they came up with years ago, to streamline their conventional-warship workload, and frankly, our own engineers are in awe of them. If I wasn't so scared of Lady Ghurap'Han, I'd suggest that we kidnap a few more Nelargo men.”

Lotor puffed a laugh. “I think that we've gotten all that we're going to get from that woman. We'll just have to make the best of it. Anything else to report?”

“Couple of things,” Tilwass said. “Got a report from the Quartermasters saying that we're starting to get low on a lot of small but important things, and while they've been raiding every parts warehouse we've come across, some of those bits have been discontinued—that's the problem with old ships, sir; things wear out and there aren't any more replacements. The Nelargo team can make some of them, but not all. We may have to go and find ourselves a vintage ship-parts dealer.”

Lotor grunted sourly. “Lovely. Any sign of the Ghamparva?”

Tilwass waggled a hand. “Maybe. We've been jumping around like a threttle on an ice slick, and they disguise their scouts to look like small passenger shuttles. Hard to spot, but we've got people who know what to look for, and they think that they've spotted a few. So far, we're keeping ahead of them, but I've told the Captains to open fire immediately if they pop in and make a grab at us.”

“Good enough,” Lotor said. “Anything else?”

“Nothing that you want to hear,” Tilwass said darkly.

Lotor gave the man a sharp look. “Tell me anyway.”

“It's the _Night Terror_ again, sir,” Tilwass said with an apologetic glance. “More sightings all over the place, and something big happened just a few days ago in the Leppamar Void.”

“Where?” Lotor asked. “I've never heard of the place.”

Tilwass smiled grimly. “That's the point. No one has, much. It's another one of those empty, boring spots out in the middle of nowhere, out at the ass-end of the Hurionee Sector. There was a big burst of some sort of weird signal for a few minutes from there, and some amateur long-scope operator decided to have a look. Even got a decent image. Five big black ships, sir, around a bigger mobile station that had Ghamparva insignia. Then they were gone, and the station with 'em. Scout drones found a few bits of hullplate when they were sent up to have a look, but nothing else. Imperial hullplate, too, sections from fighter bays and engine pods. I don't think that the station left under its own power, sir.”

Lotor's breath hissed through his teeth. “This has been confirmed?”

“Sorry, sir, yes. I can show you the vid myself.”

“Damn,” Lotor muttered.

“Sorry, sir.”

Lotor shook his head. “Don't be. I chose not to believe you, but I cannot in good sense deny confirmed proof. Well, if the Hoshinthra have decided to target the Ghamparva for the time being, I won't complain. It will keep them both very busy. Has Voltron been sighted yet?”

“Nothing since Queghomm,” Tilwass replied, “and they're still arguing over whether or not it was there at all. Drinths are like that, and their Governor's been letting them be that way. He's got a cushy job and doesn't like disruptions.”

Lotor frowned. “And the movements of the Fleet?”

“Scattered. They're everywhere and nowhere.” Tilwass shrugged. “They'll show up if someone tries to retake the planets they've stolen, but once they're done pounding his fleet to pieces, poof! They're gone again, and they almost never have Voltron with them. It's driving the General Staff wild.”

“I'm surprised that Father's forces haven't tried attacking several worlds at once,” Lotor observed.

“Can't. Losing that destructor fleet in Beronite space put a big crimp in operations.” Tilwass waved a hand in the vague direction of the cosmos. “They've got reinforcements coming in from other places, but the Empire is _big._ It takes a lot of time to reshuffle things, nobody wants to turn loose of that big a share of their defenses, so there are snags and hangups everywhere, and a lot of big interest groups are taking offense at the mess. You should hear the screaming from the High Families right now—that last Robeast was one of their boys.”

“Hah. Not a volunteer, I assume.”

“Not hardly. It's all over the news.” Tilwass shook his head glumly. “Emperor gave them an ultimatum, too—sit down, shut up, obey, or get wiped out. The Matriarchs are taking it kind of hard.”

Lotor couldn't help but smile at that. “Any chance of Lady Inzera spontaneously combusting?”

“You wish, sir. She goes icy when upset.”

“She does, indeed.” Lotor paused to look out of a window at the hazy blue-and-brown planet below. “You are well-informed; what do you think that Father will do next?”

Tilwass was quiet for a long moment. “Can't say, sir. You'd know him better than me.”

Lotor turned and leaned against the embrasure, staring directly into Tilwass's eyes. “I know that you have contacts back at the Center, Tilwass, and that they occasionally pass you tidbits. Helpful tidbits thus far.”

Tilwass didn't bother to deny it. “They're scared spitless, sir. Whatever the Paladins did to him, it's not getting better. He's still functional, but he could go off bang at any time, and in any direction. Haggar's building another monster, maybe two, and nobody wants to be the key ingredient. It's the Paladins' move now, and everybody's chewing their nails over what that's going to be.”

“All to the better if we find them first, then,” Lotor mused. “Very well. It is known that they have friends in the Bamnapos Sector. We will swell our numbers further, and then go and pay a visit. Halidex, I believe, is their primary partner?”

“Yessir,” Tilwass said, but raised a warning hand. “They're heavily-patrolled, though, and nobody's heard from their Governor or their Garrison in a long while.”

Lotor smiled grimly. “I don't doubt it. Halidex has neighbors, however, and I expect that we could, once our force is large enough, draw some of that home guard away. Enough to open them up to a sudden strike, which may well inspire them to call upon the aid of their heroes. Particularly if we time it properly.”

Tilwass grinned. “Sounds like a plan, sir. How many more of these colony garrisons do you want to hit?”

Lotor turned to look out of the window again, this time at his own fleet. It was nearly up to its old strength now, but many of the newly-acquired ships were older models; the Fringes did not rate the newest or the best. “Three or four at least, if we assume that half of each Garrison's ships are up to my standards. Perhaps more. We have lost many of our own Ghamparva craft. I wonder... could the Nelargo men build new ones?”

Tilwass sighed. “First thing I asked them. Marzad says no, not with the equipment they've got to work with. He and the others could cobble something together, if you sent somebody to collect the wrecks from the Nanthral Cluster and gave them maybe a year to work on them. There's a reason why those things cost so much.”

“Then we will make do with what we have,” Lotor said, and strode off again, forcing Tilwass to trot to keep up. “Find me the nearest Garrison with decent ships, Tilwass. We have work to do.”

“Yessir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Koko: *still visibly vibrating each time Spanch fishes up a Red Mullet*  
> Spanch: Just let it out before you rupture something.


	26. Delivery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work + cold +sick = late chapters. Sorry for the wait, everyone, but here's another installment of...Absurdity! In! SPAAAAAACE!

Chapter 26: Delivery

The team's reaction to Kevaah's rather sudden addition to the family had manifested in rather mixed ways. Hunk, as always, was perfectly willing to add another brother to the roster, and used it as an excuse to hand out bear hugs and bake another cake. Lance had given Lizenne a funny look, but had shrugged and gone along with it, and Pidge, Keith, and Allura hadn't objected, but they had huddled with Modhri to ask him exactly _why._ Shiro hadn't needed to. He'd seen immediately that Kevaah had all the signs of being a loose cannon full of subcritical plutonium, and to judge by the man's air of near-terminal bewilderment, the adoption had not only stabilized, but defused, disarmed, and decontaminated him. Erantha had put on a long-suffering expression and Zaianne had had a low-voiced, intense conversation with Lizenne in a corner, but she seemed to accept the situation in the end. Coran saw nothing wrong with having a trained killer on staff, so long as he was properly housebroken, and the mice and especially the dragons were all for it. The only real objections had come from the Blades, who couldn't believe that a respectable woman would accept a _made thing_ as family, and had sent their acting commander to complain.

None of the team had been there for that discussion, having been performing another implant-extraction at the time, but the next time any of them had seen the poor fellow was in the _Quandary's_ clinic, getting what looked to be several burns and a dislocated shoulder treated. After that, the Blades left the whole subject alone. The person who had been hit the hardest by the adoption was Kevaah himself, who had not seen it coming and was still having trouble believing it. The shock had left him dazed and peculiarly vulnerable, and Lance had decided to take advantage of this state of affairs a few evenings later in the lounge.

“Sit!” Lance said in a voice that a professional attack-dog trainer would have admired, pointing at the red couch.

Kevaah, looking confused, sat.

Lance picked up the bag that he'd brought with him from the sewing room and emptied the contents out on the nearby table in a colorful heap. “Choose a color!”

Gingerly, as if attempting to defuse a ticking time bomb, Kevaah pointed to a ball of something pink.

“Good,” Lance said, shoving the rest of the objects back into the bag, “now take these.”

Lance handed him a pair of long, thin metal rods with tapered ends. Kevaah held one up, studying it closely and testing the balance, and then threw it on a flat trajectory at something outside of the room. A moment later, there was a surprised _“ouch!”._ One of the Blades walked in, handed Lance the rod, and walked out again in offended silence, rubbing his backside.

“Sorry,” Lance called after him, and then waved a stern finger at Kevaah. _“No._ Nice shot, but that is not what we use these for.”

Kevaah shrugged and took the rod back. “It needs sharpening and it leans to the left, anyway. It's not a throwing spike?”

“No, it's a knitting needle, and you're going to learn how to use it properly.” Lance pulled out a skein of blue yarn and his own pair of needles. “My grandma always says that a man should know how to make his own clothes, so I'm going to teach you how to knit boot-socks. Here's the pattern. I had to figure it out myself, and it was a little tricky, since a lot of Galra have just the two toes and big claws, but the floors get really cold in the Castle at night. Warm toes are better, no matter how many you have. So, you start by winding the yarn around your hand like this...”

Shiro, who had been sitting on a nearby couch and reading a report, leaned his head back against the cushions and closed his eyes. Lance knew how he felt. He'd had a long and uncomfortable day in a long string of long and uncomfortable days, and it was starting to get to all of them. Keith was handling it better than the rest of them, thanks to whatever he'd done in the envirodeck, but the rest of them had all had to mutter the soothing cantrip that Lizenne had taught them far too often. Lance found himself yearning for the real thing, the sweet, grass-scented breeze of the envirodeck, the rolling hills, the cool water of the marsh and streams, and the tasty berries to be found in the thickets. Strangely, she hadn't offered them or anyone else that respite, not even the dragons, and nobody had wanted to push the issue. Not now, when she was so busy, and not when there was so much else to do. There hadn't even been time or spare energy to ask Keith what was going on in there, and Keith had been too tired to tell them. Lance had been doing his best to deal with it, but every zombie had come as a blow to him. Coping by teaching a very dangerous person how to knit was perhaps not the best way to work off the stress, but he needed to do something useful that didn't involve people parts. Besides, the floors _did_ get cold at night.

“Uh...” he heard Kevaah say uncertainly, jolting him out of his reverie.

“Yeah, it can be tricky at first,” Lance said encouragingly, looking over at his student's progress. “You just slip the point of the right needle in like _this,_ and you pull up a loop... yeah, like that. Keep going, you're doing fine. Ease up on the tension there, you're not trying to garrote anything.”

“No, you need wire for that. A fine cable works best.”

“Kevaah...”

“Sorry.”

At least he was a fast learner. After a little uncertainty and a couple of dropped stitches, the dark-furred fingers made the needles blur. It wasn't long before Lance was showing him how to size the sock (a rather pretty petal pink) to fit his large, two-toed, and fearsomely-clawed foot. Narrow, Lance observed, but very strong, and probably great for climbing. Not so good for swimming, maybe. Lance felt slightly superior about that—his own frog feet propelled him beautifully through the water.

“Lance, what are you doing?”

That was Zaianne, and she sounded frankly incredulous. Lance looked up at her startled expression and grinned.

“I'm teaching him a necessary life skill,” Lance said loftily. “It's pleasant, calming, productive, and will keep him from getting bored enough to cause mayhem. And he'll get a pair of snuggly warm socks out of it. Win-win.”

“Lovely pink socks, Auntie,” Kevaah crooned teasingly, holding up his project with a puckish grin that made Lance wonder just how old Kevaah really was.

Zaianne rolled her eyes heavenward, but smiled. “Khaeth's father tried to get me to learn to knit, once, it being traditional among his people for a mother to make her newborn's first garments herself. I have no talent at all for such things, and the crafting programs on his television were deadly boring when they weren't unforgivably sugary-sweet. He ran out of spackle twice, patching up the holes I left in the wall from hurling the needles about in frustration, and then got even by learning to knit himself.”

“Really?” Lance asked.

“Yes. He wasn't very good at it either, and gave up on it after making a couple of scarves.” She sobered, her voice turning sad. “I took mine with me when I left, and was forced to sacrifice it two weeks later to save a life. It was absolutely necessary, but it took me years to forgive them for the loss.”

“Oh,” Kevaah said, his dark features taking on a bleak cast as he considered that. “I can understand that now. My apologies.”

Lance glanced back and forth between them, aware that he was missing something. “What happened?”

Kevaah scowled at his project. “The one who mapped the Ghamparva base was my foster-mother. She was captured. I and a few friends tried to rescue her in defiance of orders. We failed. She and the others are dead. They made me watch. Before that, I did not understand what loss truly was.”

Every blunt, toneless word struck Lance like a club, and he wrapped his arm around Kevaah's broad shoulders in sympathy. Kevaah tensed, but that eased when he realized that Lance was trying to comfort him. Zaianne sat down beside Kevaah and added her arm to Lance's, and they stayed like that until Kevaah's knitting needles began to add stitches to his project again. He'd gripped them too hard, Lance saw, and had bent them a little. Nevertheless...

“Thank you,” Kevaah said tonelessly. “I would like to be alone for a little while.”

Zaianne nodded wordlessly and left. Lance stood up, saw that Shiro had slipped away while he hadn't been looking, and stared at the dark hands moving mechanically while their owner stared into a dreadful past. “Sorry,” he said, and turned away.

Mood ruined, he headed off toward the kitchen, mostly out of habit. It was empty when he arrived, with a note stuck to the fridge saying that Hunk was visiting the _Quandary;_ Doc insisted on giving Pidge regular checkups, and somebody had to keep her from running off. Feeling abandoned, Lance took a lelosha wrap that he didn't really want out of the cooler, set it on a plate, and stared despondently at it for several minutes before taking a bite. It wasn't his fault, but he felt terrible all the same. Real heroes didn't always get there in time. Real heroes could fail. Real heroes could say the wrong things at the wrong times. Lance felt very authentic right now. When he returned to the lounge, the room was empty, a half-finished pink sock still sitting on the table. He sat down with a thud on the red couch, gazing out at the stars and wondering how his own family was doing, and then feeling absurdly guilty for having a big, loving family when others had none at all.

Lance looked up in surprise at the sudden feeling of a warm hand on his back. Lizenne had appeared at his side in soft-footed silence, and her face was pensive as she gazed out at the stars. “Hi,” he said, just a touch warily, “did you need something?”

“Perhaps,” she murmured. “I've been very hard on you over the past week or so. It was necessary, but I didn't enjoy it any more than you did, and it revealed things about myself to me that I am not particularly proud of.”

Lance shrugged. “We've all got our dark sides, and you're supposed to be bossy.”

She tugged his ear gently. “Don't we just, and yes, I am. There are limits, however. I feel the need to make it up to you somehow, and I think that I've found something that will do.”

He gave her a narrow look out of the corner of his eye. “An apology on hands and knees and a promise that you won't do that again?”

There was a snort from above. “You know better than that. First, I can't promise that such a situation won't arise again, and you can't promise that you won't handle it just as badly. Secondly, dear, no Galra can make that sort of apology without being forced to, and often not even then. This is better, and is even something that you can hold in your hand. Temporarily, anyway.”

Curious, Lance held out a hand, and she took it in hers. “What is it?” he asked as she pulled him up.

“Where, actually,” she replied with a smile. “It's in the envirodeck, and I can't bring it here. The dragons would object, and so would Allura.”

He allowed her to lead him down to the docking annex and through the tube that linked the two ships, and thence into the dim, quiet halls of the _Chimera._ When they got to the envirodeck, Lance stopped in shock; everything had changed in there, and even the air tasted different. Everything was black under a simulated sky that was choked with gray billows that stank of burning. The blue-leaf trees, the bushes and tall plants, everything was a charred remnant of their former selves, and nothing moved except for a pair of distant, grubby, canvas-colored dots that might have been Tilla and Soluk.

“What happened in here?” Lance said in a horrified whisper. “A fire?”

Lizenne nodded, beckoning him over to the nearby outcropping of jutting boulders. “Yes. Quite a good one, as you can see. Climb up here with me, you'll want a good view.”

Lance complied, looking around frantically for any other signs of life, and got another shock. “The streams... the marsh... they've all dried up! Where's all the water?”

“Getting ready,” Lizenne said, finding a comfortable perch on the highest rock; she was smeared with ashes and soot already, and so was he. “The envirodeck has been programmed to follow the natural cycle of seasons upon Zampedri, and it's late autumn there right now. Just tipping over into winter, as a matter of fact, and something about the orbit makes those last few weeks of fall very, very dry on the prairies. When the rains stop, the whole ecosystem takes it as a warning.”

Her hand indicated the charred and desiccated landscape, and Lance gazed out unhappily at the torched berry bushes not too far away. “They get grass fires then, don't they?”

“Every year, on the dot,” she said, glancing up at the dragons. “If the usual lightning storms don't make an appearance, the dragons will set the fires themselves.”

“ _Why?”_ Lance asked. “Grass fires are really dangerous!”

“Not on Zampedri.” Lizenne leaned back on her hands and smiled wryly. “Or, at least, not to the native life forms. By this time of year, all of the larger beasts are fully fireproof, and all of them have evolved special membranes in their breathing apparatus that filter out smoke particulates. Only the sick or very old beasts need to fear the flames. The dragons dance in them. In the fires of autumn, Lance, do the newly mature adults travel to the lek to dance before their intended mates, and to pair-bond with their beloveds forever.”

“What's a lek?” Lance asked.

“It's an area of clear ground, used by creatures in the mating season to meet, compete for, and attract desirable breeding partners. On Zampedri, it's a single stone; a perfect circle of some sort of cloudy crystal, harder than diamond and untouched by time. It's also about the size of a soccer field, as smooth as glass, and as level as level can be. It is the only remaining indicator that there had once been a modern civilization left on that world, and for whatever reason, the dragons have left it be. I don't know why, and the dragons won't tell me. They go there to perform what you and I might call marriages; Modhri and I were granted that privilege as well.”

Lance humphed. “Okay, so they do the Fire Dance to get married. Fine. But what about everything else?”

“That benefits from the burning as well.” Lizenne drew her knees up and rested her elbows on them, pointing to the ridge of high, vine-wrapped crags in the distance. “The smaller birds and beasts hide from the flames among and underneath those stones, in deep tunnels burrowed out and stocked with seeds and nuts. The creatures of the waterways burrow down into the mud and hibernate. The insects and plants have laid their eggs and set their seeds, and it is the touch of the fire that germinates both. There are birds whose eggs will not hatch without the flame's caress, and the grasses must be burned, the bushes must be rid of deadwood, and the unhealthy tree seedlings must be thinned out, lest dangerous fungoids, bacteria, and viruses stage an outbreak. Disease is far worse a scourge than fire, Lance, because disease _does not_ _stop._ Fire stops when the fuel is gone. Disease devours everything and then lies in wait, sometimes for centuries, for something new and tasty to come along. You know this.”

Lance did, and the Healer's heart in him twisted in revulsion. “Yeah.”

“Fire cannot get rid of all of it, but it can force it back to a reasonable level. Disease has its purpose in the world, too, and must be allowed to continue in it. Unpleasant as it is, it is a vital part of a very large and complex system. The autumnal fires are just another such part. Here and now, the fires are over, and the ashes have cooled for nine days. Everything awaits what comes next in a fever of anticipation.”

“Winter?” Lance asked. “You said once that it got really rainy.”

Lizenne smiled and stood up, facing the obscured “sun”. “On the equatorial prairies of Zampedri, winter is the time of rebirth. All right,  _Chimera,_ go ahead.”

The clouds over the simulated sun thickened and darkened, and a cool wind rushed past them, sounding like the cheering and laughter of a crowd in the distance. There was a deep, chthonic rumble that Lance felt in his bones, and he knew that sound. That was the voice of a storm that didn't have time for a lot of flashy special effects, but did have an awful lot of rain to deliver and a strict schedule to follow. He'd seen pictures and videos of storm clouds dropping their cargo, but he'd never seen one doing it in all directions at once—the blue-gray cloud whorls, dense as unspun wool, touched with purple and brightened with modest flickers of sheet lightning, wound themselves into improbable shapes before loosing the gleaming rain. It was a spherical explosion of silver-gray that pattered down upon the scorched grasslands, and Lance rose to his feet in wonder as he felt his whole being respond to the sudden downpour. He and Lizenne were drenched almost immediately, but she was smiling as it happened, and Lance's very skin rejoiced at the touch of it. The smoky odors of burnt vegetation were washed away as the streams refilled, and he could feel every egg hatch, every seed split its casing, and he raised his face to the storm and received the kiss of life. It was sweet upon his lips, rich with an alien petrichor, and the scent was intoxicating. In the distance, the dragons danced, the rain washing them clean.

Washing  _him_ clean, inside and out. All of the carnage he had seen since the dance on Queghomm, the horrors he had witnessed in the Ghamparva base, the psychic grime that had coated his spirit while he had been freeing the zombies, all of it seemed to sluice out of his mind and soul under the pounding of the rain, leaving him unsmirched. Not until he started to shiver in his sodden clothing did he come out of his trance, and he turned to his equally soaked companion.

“Did Keith get to play in the fire?” he asked over the roar of the falling water.

She nodded. “Tilla and Soluk did the honors, since I'm nowhere near as fireproof as they are. Once he'd learned to bend the heat around himself, he was fine, and he wouldn't leave until the last blade of grass had been consumed. The others will have it easier, of course.”

Lance grinned and wiped water out of his eyes. Of course they would. Plop Hunk down amongst the berry bushes and he was as happy as a clam, and Pidge loved to climb the blue-leaf trees. It practically took a backhoe to get Allura out of the marsh once she had squished herself down into the mud, and put Shiro on a dragon's back out here and he was just gone.

“Any idea why?”

“Water and Fire are active, rather than passive Elements,” she shouted over a rumble of thunder, “they take work! Fortunately, we have a good environment here for all seasons, and your timing is excellent. Now, let's go and get dry—I'm starting to smell.”

There was indeed a whiff of wet dog on the air, and he laughed, really laughed for the first time in weeks.

They helped each other down from the rocks, and Lance paused to look up at the peculiarly spherical storm again; the pace had picked up and he could barely see things a few feet in front of him, and the ground squelched underfoot. “How long will this last?” he shouted over a bone-jarring rumble of thunder.

“The first downpours last about seven to fifteen days,” she shouted back, taking his hand and leading him back toward the doors. “After that, it's mostly scattered thunderstorms every day for several months. It's wet, but the rainbows are stunning, and plant growth is explosive. I'll start inviting people in very soon now, once things settle out a bit; some of the winter flora only bloom during sunshower time, and they are both useful and amazingly beautiful. I cannot wait to show Pidge and Hunk the venadra flowers. Ah!”

They had just come out of the rain, which had been coming down in huge drops and with considerable force. Lance couldn't help but grin; furry Galra were funny-looking when wet, and he was no prize either right now. She flashed him an answering grin, eyes twinkling with humor. “Up one level and to the right, there is a shower room with a drying tube. Shall we?”

Lance would have been perfectly happy to wear the sweet-smelling moisture of the envirodeck for the rest of his life, but he was wearing jeans and wet denim chafed. “Sure.”

The rest of the team were in the shower room as well, cleaning up from having helped in the recovery rooms, and they all looked up and stared as Lance entered. He was sopping wet, but so happy that he practically floated; the fabric of his well-worn shirt was made transparent by the water that it had absorbed, showing off the beautiful musculature of his torso, but far more beautiful still was the dreamy smile upon his face. He was back, they saw. Whatever had been holding him down was gone, and Lizenne, ambling soggily in behind him, practically cast a shadow in his presence.

Keith grinned. “Envirodeck?”

If Lance had smiled any wider, the top of his head would have fallen off. “Envirodeck.”

They watched him drift off toward the drying tube, all of them filled with vague yearnings that made the Lions purr in the backs of their minds. Only when he had vanished from view did they turn back to Lizenne, who looked terribly prosaic in comparison as she tried to wring out her shirt. “Do we get a turn?” Hunk asked, putting on his best waifish look.

She laughed, shaking her head and sending diamond-clear drops flying. “Of course. Just give it a few days to get the worst of the downpours over with. Lance needed watering rather badly, so we took advantage of the weather. While I can't promise you a proper hunt, I can certainly give you all a good airing, and the dragons will be happy to help... hah. Once we've paid the toll.”

Allura frowned. “Toll?”

There was a loud _whoosh_ from the drying tube, and then Lance drifted back the other way, properly dry and his hair blown every which way, but still glowing gloriously with inner peace. Lizenne chuckled. “Oh, yes. The dragons have also partaken of the renewal of the seasons, and that means molting. They'll be shedding their old scales very soon now, and that always makes them itch. As upright bipeds with opposable thumbs, we'll be required to help them with that.”

“Not a problem,” Shiro said easily. “Team?”

“Right!” they chorused, and went to find the bristle brushes, hearts full of hope.

“No, come on,” Pidge urged a nervous Arax, “she won't hurt you. Seriously, this is important. Just pile right in.”

The two Galra soldiers had been kept very busy of late. While they didn't have any special training and little information to offer, they did have two working hands apiece and a sense of obligation that had made them very useful around the place. They had been helping in the kitchens, mostly, and in the recovery rooms, helping the medics care for the rescuees. This was not a small job, as the team very well knew. All of the zombies had health problems stemming from the abuse and neglect they had suffered, and the people that had been in the pods all had worse. For them, recovery was a two-stage process: first, being healed enough to survive outside of the pods, and then getting what had been taken from them replaced. During that time, they had to be fed, kept clean, and the dressings on the more persistent injuries changed. The medics were close to worshiping Lizenne for her ability to deal with the psychological injuries, which had spared them all a great deal of grief. Sarge and Arax had felt responsible for what had happened to all of those people, for all that they'd had nothing to do with what had been going on, and had run themselves ragged over the course of the last week or two as a result.

Pidge had decided that they needed a break, or at least a change of scene—Tilla and Soluk were indeed molting, and they needed everyone on hand to work the old scales loose. Tilla whuffled gently at Arax and gave him a pleading look out of all six big blue eyes. She itched abominably, that azure gaze seemed to say, and needed a good scratching right now. Arax glanced down at the stiff bristle-brush, which seemed terribly inadequate for the job at hand, but brought it up anyway to scrub vigorously at the fine scales along her jaw. Tilla leaned into the caress, grunting in pleasure as the dull, sandy-colored outer layers began to loosen and peel off.

“That's it, harder,” Pidge said approvingly as coin-sized scales began to patter to the floor, “see, they just sort of pop off once you get them started. How are you doing over there, Sarge?”

Sarge was up on Soluk's back, scrubbing industriously at the big dorsal scales between the spikes and sending plate-sized rounds clattering down the dragon's flanks. “It's better'n scrubbing floors, Miss. Floors don't thank you for the work, and neither do the ones who assign you the duty. What are you going to do with the scales?” He held up a shed scale, turning the translucent object this way and that and scratching at it with a thumb claw. “Strong stuff.”

“Keep them, of course,” Coran said from his position at Tilla's tail. “There are hundreds of uses for castoff dragon scales, both artistic and industrial—and, back in the day, hundreds of Altean artisans would have wept in envy of us right now. Two whole, good-sized dragons' worth of scales, prime quality, all for us, and all for the price of a little bit of exercise! The Castle's armorers alone would have mobbed us, and the jewelers would have mobbed them, and then there would have been a general melee as everyone would have mobbed each other. They certainly mobbed Grandfather whenever he came back from Zampedri. He always brought back wonderful things, and everybody wanted a piece of it.”

Kevaah, who was working on Soluk's left flank, gave him a thoughtful look. “It would make good armor, I think. Modhri says that the dragons themselves are blaster-proof.”

“They are,” Allura assured him from her perch on Tilla's shoulders. “I was one once—well, one-third of one, really—and someone shot us in the face. It didn't do more than irritate Lizenne, and it didn't damage our scales hardly at all.”

Kevaah and the two soldiers stared at her. “I... am not sure that I understand that,” Kevaah said.

“You're not alone there,” Keith said, scratching hard at Soluk's hind leg. “Lizenne tried to explain it to us, and I'm still not sure if I understand it.”

Shiro snorted, working one of the big scales on Tilla's shoulder loose. “I missed it completely.”

Lance waggled his brush at him. “You were in the Mindscape, doing a whole different flavor of impossible, pal, which is kind of a shame. I think it would have done you good to see them slamming Sendak across the room like that, after the beatdown he gave you back on Arus.”

“I'd heard about that,” Arax said, “or some of it. A monster got loose in the Center, or two monsters, the man who told me wasn't really sure. Someone messed up the central AI system so badly that they had to kill and replace it, and something big and fire-breathing turned Commander Sendak into a heap of ashes. Someone even blew up Haggar a little, and she was furious about that for days!”

“That's me!” Pidge chirped proudly. “That day was kind of stressful, but it had its good parts. Right, Allura?”

Allura giggled. “Some were better than others. I still haven't quite forgiven you for those sausages.”

“Sausages?” Sarge asked, mystified.

“In the Center?” Kevaah asked, equally mystified.

Hunk sent a string of shed scales spinning to the floor with one strong sweep of his brush. “Well, yeah, those creeps kind of brought it on themselves. You see, Sendak had gotten it into his head that he could lure us into a trap by invading some friends of ours. He was right about that 'cause we don't abandon our friends. It was just a few cruisers at first, and we busted those up, no trouble. That was your first fight in the Lion, Allura, and you did pretty good.”

“Better than our first time, anyway,” Lance added darkly. “We had to sort of make it up as we went along. Didn't anybody ever write a user's manual for Voltron, Coran?”

Coran looked up from admiring a particularly perfect shed scale. “Of course they did. Cadets used to have to study it every day, and take at least two decaphebes of training courses in simulators. Unfortunately, that manual and those simulators were kept strictly at the Academy, and for security reasons, neither were allowed to leave the compound. All you had to go on was what I could remember from my own training there, and I'm sorry for that.”

Shiro stared at him. “You were in training to become a Paladin?”

Coran nodded. “The Board of Admissions thought that I might make a good match for the blue one, or maybe the red. Didn't have the right temperament for the yellow one, nor the genius that Green demanded, and even I knew that I wasn't qualified to fly the black one. Washed out early in the second decaphebe, I'm afraid, although it gave me a good grounding for chasing about after Alfor and the rest, and guaranteed me a good job as an instructor in the regular Military. I was a bit disappointed at first, of course—oh, all right, 'despondent' would have been closer—but after a few decaphebes of keeping Alfor and his team company, I knew that I wouldn't have done well as a Paladin. It's a big job, and I just wasn't up to it. Few were, to tell you the truth.”

“Yeah, but--” Lance said, only to be cut off when Allura's communicator pinged.

“Yes?” Allura asked.

Zaianne's voice came through, sounding tense. _“Allura, a Hoshinthra Warleader has just arrived, and she says that she has a delivery for us. Do any of you have an idea of what that's all about?”_

Hunk brightened up immediately. “Oh, yeah, I do! That's our cow!”

“ _Your what?”_

“Our cow. I forgot to tell you, didn't I? I got to talking with one of the Warriors about cheese, and what me and Lance were doing when we were grabbed, and he decided that he and his mom wanted a taste, too, so they agreed to get us a cow. Tell them to come right in, okay? We're in the lounge.”

There was silence from the bridge for a long moment.  _“Hunk, do you mean to tell me that you sent a_ Hoshinthra, _one of the universe's deadliest and most feared legends, to a Space Mall of all places, to get a cow?”_

Hunk blinked, realizing what terrors he might have unleashed upon an unsuspecting public. “I didn't really send them, it was their idea, but yeah. Ooh. I hope that they didn't eat the mall cop, he was just doing his job. Oh, crud, or Sal. I'll have to ask them about that. Anyway, if they've got the cow, I still want it.”

“ _Very well, then, I'll open the doors for them.”_ Zaianne sighed. _“I have no doubt that they'll be able to find you.”_

Perhaps five minutes later, they heard the clatter of two different sets of hooves approaching, and a frantic  _“Mooooo!”_ from a large and unhappy animal. Striding proudly in a moment later came a glimmering Hoshinthra, leading a genuine Earthly cow on a halter. It was a strange-looking beast to both Galran and Altean eyes, large and blocky and a sort of silvery-tan in color, with an enormous, wobbly pink organ between its hind legs. It looked nothing like the black-and-white, sort of rounded-off robot that had been fobbed off on them last time, and Hunk and Lance greeted it with open arms and joyful expressions despite its rolling eyes and dribbling maw.  _“Mooooo!”_ it bellowed again, trying to keep as much distance as it could from the half-visible monster that was pulling it along.

“Oh, sweet!” Hunk said, hurrying over to pat the beast's white-ringed nose and rub it behind its flapping ears. “A Brown Swiss! A real one! Mature, and in good condition... ooh, and really cold, too. Poor baby, does the scary Doom Moose not know how to keep the heat turned up?”

“ _Moooooo!”_ said the cow, and snuffled at Hunk, who at least smelled like a familiar creature.

“ _The ambient temperature was well within the animal's tolerances,”_ the Warrior protested. _“We kept it above the freezing point of water.”_

“Maybe, but she didn't like it. Earth's a warm planet, remember?” Lance said, patting the cow reassuringly on the shoulder. “Plus, we don't have land predators as big as you are. Anyway, thanks for picking her up. Did you have any trouble?”

The Hoshinthra grinned.  _“No one troubled us. We walked in, and all others kept their distance. We were not required to prove our right to be there. No, we did not eat anyone.”_

That last had been directed at Hunk, who was starting to look belligerent. “Good,” Hunk said, “though I'm kind of surprised that the Gray who runs the Terra store had one of these. This breed is sort of hard to find even at home these days.”

“ _The proprietor did not have live cows on hand,”_ the Hoshinthra replied with a disapproving jaw-clack. _“We required it to obtain one, which it did with some difficulty. Earth is no longer ignorant of its neighbors, and has tightened its defenses. It is right that we held it to its bargain; we made a purchase, and in the proper currency. Therefore, we were entitled to a cow.”_

Pidge began to snicker, but Keith just looked confused. “Lance said once that all they had was knickknacks and some electronics and things. What did they have that you wanted?”

“ _Nothing. There was nothing that we ourselves required, save that a purchase was to be made.”_ The Hoshinthra unfolded a long arm, the sickle-like claws dangling a large and very full shopping bag. _“Mother has decided to give these things to you, who might find them to be of some use.”_

“Oh, cool, bonus swag,” Lance said, taking the bag and rummaging through it. “Wow, you guys just sort of picked up any old stuff, didn't you? Ooh, check it out! Here's the sparkly thing Hunk said that we'd pick up for you, Allura!”

He pulled out a packet containing a rhinestone tiara and twinkling fairy wand and tossed it up to the Princess, who caught it and stared at it dubiously; she would indeed have coveted it if she had still been five decaphebes old. “Well, it is sparkly,” she allowed.

Lance grinned at her before digging into the bag again. “For those special occasions. What else have we got here... aha! A two-pound sack of Reese's Pieces. Traditional. What am I bid, what am I bid?”

“I will let you keep your liver,” Pidge growled right behind him.

“Pidge wins!” Lance squeaked fearfully and handed the sack over; Pidge ripped it open and thrust her face into the sweet, peanutty goodness.

“Holy crow, Pidge, slow down or you'll choke,” Lance said over her fearsome snarfing noises. “Okay, what else is in here? Hah! Here's something for you, Keith! A variety pack of ninja rubber duckies.” He held up a long net-bag of brightly colored rubber ducks, squeezing one as he did so and eliciting the traditional squeaky noise. “We can plan naval battles in the hot tub now. Okay, and looks like they grabbed a couple of those glittery My Little Pony dolls, too. They can be the flagships, I guess. Oooh! And here's a six-pack of those little battery-powered LED fans that Loliqua told us about. Who wants to hypnotize a theoretical physicist?”

“Me!” said Shiro with a broad grin.

Lance dug his arm into the bag again, and pulled out a pair of objects that were eye-wateringly colorful. “Here's something for you, Hunk—oh, gross. Probably the loudest Hawaiian flowery shirt and Bermuda shorts that I've ever seen in my life. Pure rayon, too.”

Hunk recoiled; so did the rest of the team, and the three Galra whimpered and covered their eyes. Tilla and Soluk shut all but one tertiary eye in protest, and even the cow looked away with a pained grunt. Hunk shuddered. “Lance, those are the biggest fashion failures I've ever seen—even the most sun-struck tourist wouldn't buy them. As a pure-blooded Samoan, I refuse to be in the same room with them. They aren't my size, anyway.”

Lance folded them back up with a nod. “I'll keep them, then. Maybe we'll meet up with the Torlunes later, and we can give them a present. Okay, what's all this stuff on the bottom?”

More rummaging happened, and Lance came up with an armful of what looked to be hardcopy books, most of them novels. “Light reading,” Lance said, checking the titles. “Whoa. Really light. Hunk, here's all three volumes of _Bubba Ralph's Roadkill Cuisine,_ and the rest of these are all bad romance novels, I mean, total Regency bodice-rippers. Hey, there are even a few Barbara Cartlands here, and—bleah—three secondhand Harlequin romances.”

Keith caught Shiro's eye and received a nod. It was a great secret, but one of the discoveries that they had made in those years when Shiro had more or less raised Keith from boyhood was that they both shared a secret passion for reading really bad romance novels to each other. “Dragon's den?” Keith whispered to Shiro.

“I'll bring the popcorn,” Shiro whispered back.

Lance placed the books down on a nearby couch where they wouldn't contaminate anything important and dug into the bag again. “Okay, last item. A six-pack of canned stuff, might be soup or something...” he pulled them out and stared incredulously at the labels, then turned a disbelieving eye upon the Hoshinthra, who had been perceiving all of this with what might have been amusement. “Seriously? A shop full of Earth stuff, even snacks, and you choose _canned haggis?”_

“ _It was on a shelf. It was available. We chose at random.”_ The Warrior made a gesture that might have been a shrug. _“It may have a use in the future.”_

“I'll try it out on Nasty later,” Hunk said, taking the cans from him. “Most authentic Unilu cuisine smells like it came out of a dumpster, anyway. Thanks for the stuff, guys, and especially for the cow. Lance, let's get her down to Hydroponics and into that pasture so she can graze, and... whoa, she really needs to be milked.”

Lance bent down to have a look at the swollen udder. “Ooh, yeah. I can do that. Do we have a bucket big enough?”

“Two, and a stool, and they're already in there.” Hunk turned to face the others. “Okay, once I've got the milk, I'll start right in on making some mozzarella. The good news is that it's one of the fast and easy ones. The bad news is that Rudolph there gets the first batch, okay? That was the deal. Don't look at me like that, Keith, I mean it. We get cow, they get cheese. I'll make you all the cheddar you want after this, right? Right. Okay, Bessie, let's go and get you fed.”

“ _Mooo!”_ said the cow, and followed the two young men out of the room.

Pidge sighed and twisted her bag of candy closed. “Right,” she said, glaring at the Hoshinthra. “Are you going to hang around for your cheese?”

“ _Yes,”_ the Warrior replied loftily. _“We await the conclusion of the bargain.”_

“Fine,” she said, and tossed it a couple of brushes. “Then you can help us with the dragons, since we've just lost two pairs of hands. You've got more than anybody here, so get to it.”

The Hoshinthra looked as though it wanted to protest, but Soluk vented a grunt that had a definite note of command in it, and it let out a long, hissing sigh and went to work.

“Hunk, this is heaven,” Lance said, popping another soft white nugget into his mouth and half-swooning with pleasure.

Hunk grinned at him but didn't reply, being too busy with stretching the fresh cheese into a smooth, elastic mass. The cow had buried her face in the armload of grass that Hunk had brought her without any hesitation at all, and had munched in perfect contentment while Lance filled two large buckets with sweet, rich milk. Hunk had even let him steal a sip of the milk, since they'd taken the cow through the decontamination tube, just to be sure that she was clean. It was the best thing that he had tasted in years. Up to that point, anyway; the little nibbles of curd he'd been stealing all along were even better, and he was happily anticipating what would come in the future. Being able to work magic was pretty cool at times, but mages were always hungry, and the high-fat, high-protein, calcium-rich cheese scratched itches that he hadn't even known that he'd had.

Hunk dropped the second ball into the bowl of ice water with a delicious _plunk_ and patted the rim. “There we go. Five more minutes and we can take them back to the lounge. Once we've made Rudolph and his mom happy, I can start making all the really good stuff. I've even put together some equipment that'll let me make aged cheeses—cheddar, parmesan-style, that sort of thing—in a lot less time than usual. That's sort of important, 'cause I don't see Keith waiting around for three months to get his cheeseburgers.”

“Got that right,” Lance said, thinking omelet thoughts. “How long does it take to make a really sharp cheddar?”

“Usually about one or two years,” Hunk said, drifting over to the pantry to check on his supply of flour; he hadn't had a proper pizza in ages, and wanted one badly. “There was one batch they made that was aged for twenty-eight years, once, and a load of bleu cheese that got sort of forgotten in a basement for almost forty-five.”

“Scary,” Lance observed.

“I'll say. It broke out of the basement all by itself and went on a rampage in a Mega-Mart.” Hunk hefted a half-empty sack of sylth flour thoughtfully. “They had to call in a SWAT team with flamethrowers to deal with it, and a hazmat team for the cleanup.”

Lance stared at him as if he'd grown a set of Hoshinthra antennae. “You are kidding me.”

“Nope. Happened in Florida, the day I was born. Mom took it as an omen.”

Lance nodded. Not only was monster cheese a perfectly good portentous event, but Florida was legendary for weird phenomena and stupid crimes. There was no law saying that the phenomenon itself couldn't be the criminal. “Cool. Do I get my flan soon?”

“Yup,” Hunk replied cheerfully. “As soon as tomorrow evening, if you're up to it. You milk it, I'll make it.”

“Done,” Lance stated firmly; in truth, he'd enjoyed milking the cow. It brought back a lot of happy memories. “So, who gets to clean up after Bessie?”

“I've got one of the drones on the job,” Hunk replied easily. “I'll run a sample through the deck's analyzer later, and see if it's compatible with Altean plants, or if the envirodeck can use it. Free fertilizer is a good thing, Lance. Cows eat a lot. Oh, and I'll need to talk to Lizenne about keeping Bessie producing. We don't exactly have a bull around, and we don't really have room for a calf.”

Lance shrugged. “Shame, that. Calves are cute. Well, it'll give her something to do that doesn't involve making people replacement parts. Thank god that _that's_ almost finished.”

Hunk agreed wholeheartedly with that. “Yeah. We've only got a few more really bad cases to deal with, and then it's back to doing heroic things again. Ready to sparkle with the rest of the team?”

Lance drew himself up proudly. “My sparkling shall awe the universe, pal. You're all going to have to wear sunglasses when I walk by.”

“Glad to hear it,” Hunk replied, and examined his cheese again. “Okay, that's done. Let's just get these delivered. Dad always says never to get indebted to anyone who has more big sharp teeth than you do.”

Lance stared at him as he lifted the two large, pearly balls of cheese out of their bowl. “Does he?”

“After that run-in he had with a loan shark? Oh, yeah. Come on, let's get this over with.”

They found their fellows in much the same state as they had left them. They had finished with Soluk, whose sand-and-pebble patterned scales gleamed with health and polish, and were finishing up with Tilla, who was fondly licking Sarge's face while the Hoshinthra polished the last small scales from her tail. They all looked around when Lance and Hunk entered, and it was interesting to see who started sniffing at the aroma of what Hunk carried. Lance saw the glint in certain people's eyes and got out of harm's way while he could.

“Okay, here you go,” Hunk said, approaching with a ball of cheese in each hand. “Sorry it took so long, but I only had citric acid for a curdling agent, and—hey!”

Pidge shot past him in a blur of motion, forcing him to dodge fast or be divested of the treasure he carried. A split second later, Keith shot by in the other direction, and Hunk had to duck and lurch out of the way or be blindsided by Shiro as well. Knowing full well that he would get no further, he shouted, “Catch!” and hurled the two balls high into the air.

The Hoshinthra dropped its brushes and reared up on its hind legs, snatching the cheese balls out of the air with a pair of hands; no sooner had its forehooves touched the floor again that it got a surprise—Pidge landed squarely on its back and grabbed hold of its antennae, right near the roots, shouting, “Hand over the cheese or I pull them out!”

Never in the history of their race had anyone done this to them, and the Warrior discovered to its horror that it was ticklish just there. Uttering a most indignant and undignified squawk, it began to dance around in circles, trying to shake her off without losing its primary sensory organs as well. Pidge, of course, was not about to let go until she got what she wanted. Keith's predator instincts reacted instantly to the sight of an enemy in distress, and he began to harry the Hoshinthra from the sides, grabbing at its arms and trying to trip it up.

By this time, Hunk and Lance had made their way over to the dragons, where Allura and the three Galra were watching in utter astonishment. Shiro seemed to have vanished, but they were fairly sure that he'd reappear shortly.

“What are they _doing?”_ Allura asked, watching Pidge haul back on the Hoshinthra's antennae at what had to have been a painful angle.

“Mugging a Doom Moose,” Lance said casually.

Hunk shrugged. “I did warn them that this would happen.”

“They never do take that warning seriously, you know,” Coran chided mildly, sweeping fallen scales into a neat pile. “Used to have to issue that same warning to all sorts of people myself, back in the day. Heroism burns a lot of calories, and quite a lot of folks learned the hard way not to get between Alfor's team and the food after a battle. Gyrgan in particular was a devil for sweets, and Trigel for fresh fruit. Blaytz loved fish of all sorts, Alfor would eat just about anything, and I have personally seen Zarkon savage a roast as big as he was with his bare hands and teeth. He'd missed lunch that day, as I recall, and it had been a pretty stiff battle. Quite a difficult one, actually. Weblums don't usually go after living planets, but there's always one deviant out there, right? Tough as nails, too.”

Distracted and in distress, the massive alien shrieked in frustration and took off across the room, managing all of three long bounds before stumbling over its own hooves when a black shadow cannoned out of the furniture right in front of it and relieved it of one of its cheeses. Keith and Pidge leaped away as the Hoshinthra scrambled to keep itself from crashing onto the floor. The black blur resolved itself into Shiro on the far side of the room in a classic ninja pose, one hand holding the coveted treat.

Lance scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Is it cheating to use super-powers to steal someone else's lunch?”

Hunk waggled a hand. “It depends on the lunch. Technically, that's what we did back on the station.”

“True,” Lance admitted.

Allura stared in perplexity at them as Shiro tore the ball into three equal pieces, and then shared his ill-gotten gains with Pidge and Keith. “He actually manipulated time on his own just now! He slowed it, just a little, and for a snack! Is this... cheese... really that good?”

Lance and Hunk gave her arch looks in stereo. “Behold the power of cheese,” Hunk proclaimed solemnly.

“Think of it like this, Allura,” Lance said, watching his teammates gobble their portions while the Hoshinthra sorted out its antennae. “It's a comfort food. If you could have something that you loved, something that the Castle can't make for you, and have a lot of it right now, what would you do to get it?”

Allura glanced over at the rather shaken alien again, and smiled. “You have a point.”

“You're all mad,” Sarge grumbled. “Doing a thing like that, and with a beast that can bite you in half. You haven't got any fear or caution, do you?”

Lance thought about that. “We've got lots. We just save it for the really bad situations, is all. This is just playing around. See? Shiro did leave Rudolph with one cheese, after all, and surprises are good for them.”

“Really?” Arax asked weakly.

Hunk smiled, watching his work being properly appreciated. “Oh, heck, yeah.”

The Hoshinthra flared its antennae out with a snap and shook itself all over, then tossed its remaining cheese into the air. The bony jaws snapped it neatly out of the peak of its arc, and it stood still for a few moments before turning to approach the group standing by the dragons.

“ _This person has perceived 'cheese' fully, and through this person, Thssskrakos and the other Talssenemaia,”_ it said, sounding a bit subdued. _“You mentioned that there were many types of cheese.”_

“Huh?” Hunk said. “Sure. You've got hard cheeses, and soft cheeses, and the middling-hard ones, the aged cheeses and the fast cheeses... there are hundreds of different types, and that's just the cow cheeses. That mozzarella you just had was pretty good, but for a really authentic mozz, it has to be made from water buffalo milk. And then there's the goat cheeses, those are really good; sheep cheese is excellent, and there are blended-milk cheeses, too. You can get yak cheese, but that's really rare. You can make cheese from the milk of just about every lactating mammal out there, maybe even monotreme milk if you really work at it, but don't ask about Human-milk cheese 'cause that'll upset people. Oh, and don't ever accept anything labeled 'cheese food', 'cause by law, it isn't cheese.”

Lance scowled at him. “Oh, come on, I like American cheese and the stuff in the spray cans.”

“Philistine,” Hunk accused loftily.

“But you love me anyway,” Lance rebutted easily.

Hunk wrapped an arm around Lance and patted his head. “Love the sinner, hate the sin.”

The Hoshinthra snorted and ran a pair of black tongues over its long teeth. _“Acknowledged. Your homeworld is the sole source of Earthly cheese?”_

Lance blinked at it. “Well, yeah. We've got a base on the moon right now, but I don't think they're zoned for cattle.”

The Hoshinthra pawed lightly at the decking with a forehoof. _“It has been decided that Earth is worthy of protection. Therefore, we will protect it. In return for a tithe of cheese, no Galra, nor any other aggressor, will be permitted within the bounds of that solar system for the foreseeable future.”_

They stared at the Warrior in disbelief for a moment, and then Allura gave Hunk a sidelong glance. “Hunk, have you just ensured the survival of your people with a food item?”

“I think so,” Hunk replied. “Maybe the folks back home can sell them homesteading rights on Pluto or Enceladus, too. Pidge? I think you're going to want to write your dad a warning letter!”

And so it was that the Talssenemai Thssskrakos drifted away from the cluster of ships, duty done and obligations fulfilled, and with a nice packet of fresh research data for the Scientists and Mystics to perceive. It was that, more than anything else, that had made Voltron and its companions of value to the Hoshinthra. They were so non-linear, so prone to strange discovery, so _unexpected,_ and just being in their presence revealed shades of meaning about everyone and everything around them that even the most advanced of Mystics hadn't even known were there. That included themselves; all of them had known that their antennae were sensitive, of course; that was what those organs were for. “Ticklish”, on the other hand, was an entirely new concept. Oh, yes, the Human race had value, and one well beyond their admittedly delightful dairy industry. It was to be expected that the Lions... and certain other agencies... had chosen the very best of them for their great task, but there might well be similar treasures hidden within the race and the world they inhabited. Steps would be taken to ensure that both would be preserved for future study. For now, other plans lay ready to engage the Warleader Class's attention, and they were eager to begin.

_Mission complete?_ The massed ranks of the Talssenemaia queried as Thssskrakos took up the proper heading to rejoin her many sisters.

_Current phase complete,_ she replied, a hot anticipation rising in her core that made the shackled ghosts gibber and wail in terror.  _Initiate next phase._

Her words sent a ripple of savage joy throughout her fellow Talssenemaia, and they heard the wild, mad laughter of their standard-bearer,  _the_ Talssenemai Shussshorim, who had won the right to lead the way. She had an instinct, a subtle perception that her own sister Talssenemaia had lacked, and one very like what ran strong and hot in the Voltron team. For five hundred years, the Scientists and Mystics had studied that mysterious phenomenon, and in this latest generation had succeeded in reproducing it. Thssskrakos felt it in herself, pulling her bow to face a future that was better than the one they had now. A wave of confirmation emanated from the Mystic Class and Thssskrakos leaped into hyperspace, eager to take that next step forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's face it, guys. If extraterrestrial life ever does contact our planet, it's probably going to be about something like cheese. Life is too weird not to have it turn out that way. What do you think Earth will finally get asked for? Let us know, we love to hear from everyone!


	27. A Persistence of Memory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry this is so late. Real Life has been kicking our asses this last week, between work and fam and fighting off various colds and finally a rash of being Responsible Adults and going to vote, which for some reason resulted in the entire family crashing and burning for the rest of the night. This week will also be super busy, but next week is my vacation, so I'll have more freedom then. @_@

Chapter 27: A Persistence of Memory

Zarkon strode onward, and the dead walked with him. They were his constant companions now, and for the most part they seemed content to stay in the background, mere shadows seen out of the corners of his eyes. He refused to fear them, refused to acknowledge them, refused to believe that they could be real, no matter how much those two new scars pained him at times. It was a trick, some subtle hex laid upon him by a silly child and a primitive weapon, so insignificant that even Haggar's diamond-sharp aetheric sight couldn't detect it. She had looked him over twice and found nothing wrong, aside from the residual scarring in his muscle tissues, which would fade soon enough.

The dead did not fade. He felt them more than saw them, and a tiny, despised, and long-neglected part of him was grateful for it. He hadn't felt them near him in eons, and there had been a time where having them at his back was as natural as his own heartbeat. Something was different this time, though. There was a strange feeling in the air; a scent, perhaps, or a dryness, or a faint change in temperature. A color or a shape to the dimness that hadn't been there before. It was strangely familiar, and he didn't know why.

Zarkon paused, and frowned at the empty hall before him. He'd grown tired of his clinging attendants and the tiresome nagging of the emissaries of the High Houses, and had gone to check up on Haggar's latest project. It had been sitting half-finished on one side of the cavernous chamber, a thing of many ill-defined shapes, while construction drones had put the finishing touches on a secondary construction array. Voltron could hold its own against one Robeast, be it ever so powerful. _Let's see how it does against two,_ he'd thought with grim anticipation. The Lions were self-repairing, to the point of nigh-indestructibility. The Paladins were not, and he could retrieve his bayard from a pile of pulped flesh as easily as from a live captive. He had left Haggar to her work and had intended to head back to the throne room, but that well-traveled path seemed to have deserted him. He could not have taken a wrong turn. He'd been walking these halls for ten thousand years. There was no possible way that he could have gotten lost.

He glanced at a nearby wall, his infrared-sensitive eyes picking up the faded and smudged level designation printed there. He had somehow wandered into the heart of the station itself and was in the passages of the original craft, the ancient colony ship _Ghram Parzurak_ itself. This was Haggar's private territory, or most of it, anyway; Zarkon hadn't been here since before his homeworld had been destroyed, and only briefly at that. The ship had been built for the purpose of ferrying the common folk of Golraz to their new home, and Zarkon had not been much interested in their accommodations. His homeworld had been beautiful, with its stark mountains and red sands, the secret valleys and hidden oases that had made life there not only possible, but strong. Strong, but not numerous. Deserts had far outnumbered the planet's fertile areas, and despite the improvements that his people had made in themselves, Golraz simply didn't have enough water to support them all. Golraz Beta had been slated for colonization already, hence the fleet of huge colony ships, to take the surplus population away to where they would not crowd those worthy of staying at home--

Zarkon's head jerked up at a strange sound that slid through the still air like a faint breeze. Someone was singing, very softly. A woman, he realized. Not Haggar, who never sang, and the song being sung was one that had been lost with Golraz itself. A hymn to the old gods, the Great Mother in particular. Staring around, he saw a faint light in one of the side rooms, and smelled a sweetness on the air that was equally impossible: Tanatji incense, derived from the sap of a tree that had grown only upon the first Planet Golraz, and had refused to grow on the second. His breath came short. It couldn't be...

He looked into the room, and there she was.

At least she had the grace to look unreal. When Alfor and the others manifested for him, they looked solid and real until someone walked through them, but this woman was as filmy and transparent as a daydream. That wasn't surprising, really. She hadn't been all that real to him when she had lived, either. His mother had been slender and delicately-built for a Golrazi woman, and had been a priestess before her family had maneuvered her into a marriage with Zarkon's father. She had returned to her Temple duties after he and his brothers had come of age, but she had always been otherworldly, strangely distant, with an air of one who remained in this reality only because she had obligations to fulfill. She stood now, arrayed in the dawn-colored robes that she always wore, staring at an impossible view. She was in one of the old observation lounges, the big wall screens showing a starscape that no longer existed; the whole side of the ship had been swallowed up by the outer decks ages ago.

_My son,_ he heard her say, and she turned to face him. She had been one of the great beauties of her day, and even now she brightened the very air around her.

He did not answer. She was not real, and her image seemed to ripple like reflections in a pool.

_I always knew that you would become great, Zarkon,_ the memory of a woman murmured, although her eyes were sad.  _You were always the strongest of your brothers, the proudest, the most ambitious. Even your elder brothers were in awe of you. All the world rejoiced when you were accepted by the Lion. We needed heroes so badly in those days._

Zarkon remembered. He remembered the cheering multitudes and the gratitude of so very many different peoples once the invasions had been stopped, monsters had been destroyed, rogue comets deflected, despotic rulers had been removed, the mad scientists thwarted, populations saved from natural disasters, and so on, and so on. The adulation of the known universe had been his rightful due.

_So much evil faced and overthrown,_ the shade of his mother whispered gently, her words more a texture on the air itself than anything else.  _You are a mighty gamepiece, Zarkon. How the Powers treasure you._

Stung by this, Zarkon growled, “I am no one's plaything.”

The long-ago Queen didn't seem to notice his words.  _It is a very ancient game, and each thing that lives is a gamepiece. Each choice we make, willing or unwilling, affects the field of play for good or for ill. It is a great thing to become a gamepiece of significance, and it holds a terrible risk. All too often, such markers are stolen, corrupted, and destroyed. I spent much time praying that your Lion would keep you both pure of heart and strong in faith, my son._

Zarkon had not had faith in anything other than himself and Haggar for a very long time. The universe at large seemed to be made of second-rate disappointments some days, and triumphs were almost always anticlimactic. Only one triumph mattered now, the one wherein he would reclaim what he had lost. Only then would he would be complete, and all of creation would kneel before him.

_My prayers were not answered, Zarkon._

Ghost tears trickled down his mother's face, shining like diamonds in the still air, and Zarkon watched them fall with a faint but growing sense of horror. His mother had wept only very rarely; she'd had just a touch of oracular talent, just enough to know when a terrible event was about to occur; usually it was an earthquake that did it, or one of the great sandstorms that roared in out of the deserts from time to time. Sometimes it was the impending death of a family member, or the collapse of a public structure. Only when lives would be lost, either many small lives or one very important one, only then would she shed tears, and the Tears of the Queen had become a byword on Golraz for impending disaster. It shocked him, and then angered him that he could still feel fear, and the Queen turned her face away from his wrath.

_You would not listen, you fool,_ another woman's voice snapped in his ear, and he whirled around to see the more robust but no less ethereal form of Khiradi, whom his Grandfather had tried to betroth him to. She was magnificent in her fury, eyes sparking like fire, her pale fur seeming to glow like starshine, and the silks she wore billowed around her as if whipped by storm winds.  _The most important choice that anyone of our time could ever have made, and you would not look beyond your own desires. You still cannot see what she truly is even now. You cannot even see what she has done to you! She has given you power, but at what cost? Was not your own home planet enough?_

Khiradi had always hated Haggar, something that he had never forgiven her for. Zarkon snarled and swung a fist through the apparition, which broke up like fog before a wind; his mother had already gone, leaving only a trace of spice upon the air. The scar on his shoulder panged sharply, and he winced at the strength of it.

_That was ill-done, boy,_ another voice out of the depths of memory chided, and this time it was his grandfather who stepped out of the past, as clear as the image in a mirror. Very much like the image in a mirror; everyone had always remarked upon how closely Zarkon had resembled his grandfather.  _I had always wondered about her, and her conduct after the Sisterhood war. It was not that she had vanished for a time in the aftermath of that final battle; it was the way that Zaianne's pupils began to turn up dead, one after the other, and their pupils in turn. What had she learned, boy, or what had they refused to teach her? All you could see was that pretty face, all you could hear were those pretty words, never once questioning exactly_ why _she took so much of an interest in you. Alteans do not breed outside their own species!_

_Alfor was already married,_ a second voice said darkly, and Zarkon spun to see another long-forgotten figure glaring disapprovingly at him.

“Father?” he whispered disbelievingly.

The apparition narrowed its eyes at him and continued as if he had not spoken, a tactic that Zarkon had once both hated and feared; it had been used only when his sire was angry.  _Blaytz loved too lightly, and too often. Gyrgan was fixated upon his teammates. Trigel did not feel comfortable around her. How could you not have seen through her facade, Zarkon? It should have been obvious to you that you were the only open door to the Lions, which were the greatest aetheric constructs ever dreamed of, much less built. You loved her, and that love was real, but to her you were never more than a means to an end. She has stayed by you this long only because of what you could give her... and give to that which owns the both of you. It desires the Lions, my son, and the power that Voltron represents._

“No one owns me!” Zarkon thundered, lunging forward, and the ghosts vanished.

_Ten thousand years it has taken to recover from your refusal to see the truth,_ his father's voice echoed in his ears,  _ten trillion lives and more have you devoured to keep yourself among the living, and in all that time you have never once asked yourself if what you had done was wrong. Why should you have? An absolute ruler—by his own decree—is never in error. Beware, Zarkon, for history repeats; one day it will come to pass that you will see old victories come to light again, and it will not be you who wins them. At best, you will be only the past shadow of the present victor, and in the end your very name will be expunged from history._

“No one will forget me,” Zarkon said defiantly.

_Really?_ Khiradi asked him mockingly out of the shadows.  _Name me one person other than yourself who remembers your father's name, or your grandfather's; your mother's name, or mine. We were great once, Zarkon, strong and wise royals, and the crowds cheered us whenever we showed ourselves to them. Where are those crowds now, and if you were to mention our names, would anyone know them? Can you, proud Emperor, remember the names of your brothers, your parents? What was your grandfather's name? Where is your own Lineage-name recorded, and can you remember even that? You will follow us into obscurity and oblivion even while you still live, if a better candidate should show himself. Crowds are so fickle, aren't they? You of all people should know by now how quickly they choose a new champion._

The voices left him then, and the ghostly view in the screen showed, just for a split-second, a view that had haunted his dreams in the early years of his reign, before he had stopped dreaming altogether: Golraz in its death-throes, its core spilling out into the void like the yolk of a shattered egg. It vanished in a twinkling, showing only the gray, dusty surface of a screen that hadn't shown anything in thousands of years. Zarkon still seethed with anger and unaccustomed anxiety. Not doubt, he told himself, not ever doubt. Haggar alone had stayed loyal to him all of this time, right from the beginning. He had given her much, but she had returned value for value every time, if not more so. He could not possibly doubt her. He was so busy refusing to doubt that the question of whether he could remember the names of his own kin had fallen to the wayside. He did not want to remember the fact that he'd forgotten their names long ago, somewhere back around the two-thousandth anniversary of his ascent to the Throne, when someone had asked him, and he hadn't been able to remember. His refusal was so strong that he barely felt the stabbing pains in his shoulder and thigh. Far more pressing now was Khiradi's last mocking comment; _Champion,_ she had said, and that word grated harshly over his nerves. That title belonged to a wretch of a gladiator-slave, a thief, an enemy, a base creature who had usurped a far greater office and stolen what was rightfully Zarkon's. Had turned the Lion against its rightful master, and stolen as well the regard of Zarkon's subjects. For that he had paid, and would pay again; Zarkon would see to it. Haggar knew ways of keeping a captive alive for decades, and so did he. No one stole from the Emperor and got away with it.

Someone sneezed violently in the hall outside the ancient lounge, and it was such a normal, natural sound that it startled him. “Majesty?” someone asked, and Zarkon recognized the voice as belonging to Kerraz, Pendrash's favorite aide. The General Staff had made a habit of sending the man on the errands that they themselves preferred not to risk themselves by running. There was another explosive sneeze, a muttered comment about getting a cleaning drone in here, and the young man poked his head through the door, a locator in one hand and a sheet of hardcopy in the other. He showed no sign of having seen or heard his Emperor's moment of rage, and Zarkon began to relax. There was a steadiness about the young man that was comforting.

Kerraz offered the customary bow and salute. “Your pardon, Majesty, but Generals Grachok and Urtanth ordered me to deliver this message to you. It's urgent, I'm afraid. A large number of the outlying colonies have come under attack, particularly the industrial centers. We've lost contact with most of them already.”

“Who dares?” Zarkon growled, taking the sheet and glaring at the script.

“The identity of the aggressors hasn't been confirmed yet,” the aide replied, “but it's not the Ghost Fleet. No Fleet ships have been spotted among the attackers, nor has Voltron appeared. All we know is that they're very fast, and very effective.”

The message said as much, and Zarkon rumbled dangerously. “I will not tolerate such actions against my Empire. Are the Generals mounting countermeasures?”

The aide saluted. “General Pendrash is doing his best, Majesty, but the others wish to consult with you first. There are suggestions... hints, really, that the attackers are Hoshinthra. Yes, I know that's impossible, but they're upset nonetheless. You're the only one in the Empire who has firsthand experience in dealing with those things.”

Zarkon humphed. Suddenly, the prospect of putting the fear of himself into the hearts of his highest military officers seemed very attractive. “Very well. Come; I will straighten them out momentarily.”

He strode out of the room at a brisk pace, forcing the young man to trot to keep up. Kerraz didn't mind, and preferred to keep a healthy distance between himself and his sovereign; it wasn't that Zarkon had wandered off into the depths of the SpaceHab. He did that fairly frequently, particularly when people had been annoying him. It was the way he'd been roaring angry denials at people who hadn't been there that made Kerraz nervous. Whatever Zarkon had, it was getting worse, and Pendrash would need to know about it as soon as possible.

“ _How_ many?” Shiro blurted in surprise. “It's only been a few days!”

“ _We do not waste time,”_ the _Quandary's_ Hoshinthra representative hissed haughtily. _“Mother's descendant concluded the agreement with the yellow Paladin, and that was the signal. No delay was necessary.”_

Shiro glanced at Hunk, who shrugged and shook his head; he'd had no idea what he'd been about to trigger. He glanced around the table at his team, at Kolivan—who had a calculating expression on his face that Shiro had come to know and be wary of—at the entirely-too-smug Hoshinthra, at the surprised-looking Lizenne and Modhri, and at Yantilee, who was exhibiting the patient air of a babysitter at a seven-year-old's birthday party.

Yantilee flicked a finger at the holo-projector, which was showing a map of a goodly section of the Empire; hundreds of points of angry red light marked spots where the Hoshinthra had been busy. “So far, they've knocked out nearly a thousand outposts. Some a little further in, some a little further out. Small Garrisons and orbital factories so far, but that won't last. It's usually only one ship per attack, too, and that's got a lot of people wetting their trousers over it. They aren't quite as strong or fast as a Lion, but there are a lot more of them, and they've got their great-granny's reputation on their side. I've told my lads to clear out and stay clear the moment they pop in, which is just sense. Tchak and Ketzewan have already had a close call, and nobody wants to have another.”

Pidge sat up straight, looking worried. “Did they take damage? What happened?”

Yantilee waved a reassuring hand. “The pair of 'em got called in to Walmanech—some fool of a patrol fleet captain hoped to make a name for himself by taking the planet away from us. Tchak, Ketzewan, and some of the local fighters were all set to show the man that his idea was a dumb one, and then _boom._ One big black ship and a few of those little rocky-looking ones. No warning, no signal. They just popped in and started shooting, and our friends got out of there as fast as they could. When the noise stopped, they went back for a look.”

Keith hummed darkly under his breath, having seen the _Night Terror_ fight. “Let me guess. No invasion fleet?”

Yantilee nodded grimly. “No invasion fleet, lots of wreckage, black ships gone. Nothing left but a few lucky escape pods full of panicky troops. No officers among them, I might add, and all of them were grateful for the rescue.”

“Huh. No really aggressive soldiers?” and at Yantilee's negative, Hunk sighed and rubbed at his eyes. “One or two out of ten, right? That's the approximate ratio of officers and really mean guys to the rest of them.”

“More or less,” Yantilee allowed. “Why?”

“Culling,” Lance said unhappily. “The Warrior we worked with on the Ghamparva station said that if they ate all the really mean ones—about two out of every ten—for about a thousand years or so, then maybe the race would be nicer.”

Yantilee glanced over at the grinning Warrior, then grunted sourly and made an odd gesture with one hand, possibly a sign to ward off evil. “Gods preserve us from those who play the Long Game. It's gruesome, but it might work. On the other hand, it's also opening up a lot of opportunities for us right now. The military was already messed up from losing the destructor fleet in the Nanthral Cluster, and now that state of disarray is bigger, and a lot more widespread. Those two trade hubs near Arcobi have already declared themselves independent, and a bunch of other worlds have thrown off the yoke of the oppressors all by themselves. Princess, we're going to have to put on our pretty dresses and do diplomat things again soon; they're asking to join the Coalition.”

“I should be delighted,” Allura said, although the thought of the huge pirate Admiral in a ballgown was a bit mind-blowing. “Which planets?”

Yantilee leaned back and started ticking off civilizations on her fingers. “Poberantha and Rakshane, of course, and Sowirra, Telear, Suelora, D'Nokimi, Apploth, Hap'moc'moc, Bipplepam, Thrin, and Fronz, so far. They like the idea of having the Hoshinthra between them and Zarkon.”

The Warrior tossed its head and clacked its jaws in appreciation; it was one of Shussshorim's sons and therefore shared its mother's bloodthirstiness. _“We are pleased to offer so welcome a barrier.”_

“And you are welcome to continue,” Lizenne mused. “Those are all vulnerable worlds with pacifistic peoples, and the Empire has taken great advantage of them over the past several hundred years. Nearly a thousand, in the case of the Thrinish, and they've suffered for it. We may want to introduce them to the Olkari and the Beronites, who are of a more passive-aggressive habit, just to see if those two can instruct this group of peoples in the gentle art of self-defense.”

“Grand plans,” Modhri murmured, and then indicated a particular portion of the hologram. “Warrior, I notice that your kin are pressing particularly hard in this direction, inward toward the Core Worlds. Dare I ask why?”

Black antennae glittered and rippled above the heavy bone of the skull, and steak-knife teeth gleamed unsettlingly when it turned to face him. _“Nelargo Shipyard. Tzairona must go home.”_

Modhri stared at the Warrior in shock, and he wasn't alone in that. Shussshorim's sons tended to be more cryptic in manner than her more recent descendants, and it was rare for them to be so definite about anything. “Must she? For her sake, or for ours?”

“ _Yessss,”_ hissed the Warrior, drawing the sibilants out with relish. _“Very soon, it will be time.”_

Kolivan's eyes glinted. “Nelargo is well-guarded, and I do not doubt that the Core Worlds are holding their fleets close. If you could strike, say, here--” he pointed at a particular solar system, “--the Uporpak System is one with no living worlds, but one with rich lodes of metals and minerals, and the Core Worlds rely upon it for much of their raw materials. The surrounding solar systems all have factory planets that process and refine the ore. Even if you merely threaten those, the Core World garrisons might be drawn aside just enough to allow my Order to essay a strike of our own. Very quick and light, a sabotage run only, to cripple their defenses in particular; I would prefer to recover Modhri's people alive and well.”

“Thank you,” Modhri said quietly. “I assume that you have a map of the site?”

Kolivan nodded. “Recently-acquired, and confirmed by our own people. Your foremother's name opens many doors, and your kin wish to be free of Lady Inzera's grasp; they are not above helping us now and again. Warrior, will your people give me sufficient time to coordinate my men?”

The Warrior grinned horribly.  _“It will be done.”_

“Good enough,” Yantilee said. “Have you a plan to take the whole clan at once, and where are you going to lodge them? I don't see your Matriarch letting them go group by group, or at all, Lizenne. I've done some research on that woman, and she's a terror.”

Allura lifted a hand. “The Castle can house them, temporarily at least; we used to have a staff of approximately a thousand crewmembers aboard at all times when Father was alive.”

Kolivan nodded. “I have personnel transports that can take the ones living on Galran Prime itself, and those on Nelargo have told me that they can simply take the newly-made ships—in lieu of back pay, they tell me. Apparently, none of that Lineage can so much as pick up a five-gac coin from the sidewalk without Inzera demanding two-thirds of it.”

Modhri's face hardened. “We'll handle Inzera. But they will all come? Some of my kin have obligations to various outside parties, or have made personal oaths to Ghurap'Han members, or are very old.”

Kolivan gestured reassuringly. “They'll come. Inzera has been very difficult to be around since Lotor stole her ships, and has been taking it out on them. Some of Ghurap'Han may follow along; you and Lizenne are not the only ones to enjoy a romance that has been forbidden to you. As for the ones employed outside of the House...” Kolivan granted Modhri one of his rare smiles. “A simple 'I quit' will do, although your brother might well send packets of drama back to his studio, now and again.”

Hunk snapped his fingers. “That's right, your brother's an actor. Oh, cool! He can make it into a real-life adventure, and tell his fans what has been really going on, and sort of make a travelogue out of it.”

Shiro smiled. “It might also give us a way to get our own message out to the Empire at large. How big a following does he have, anyway?”

Modhri shook his head. “I don't know, precisely; I've been a bit too busy to keep an eye on the network statistics. He does enjoy a certain amount of fame, and his latest adventure series is quite popular, but that's all that I know of it.”

Yantilee chuckled. “You're talking about Morand Khorex'Var, right? 'Quite' popular doesn't cover it. Half of my crew watches _The Gem of Ekranthos_ religiously, just to see that man with his shirt off, Galra or no.”

Modhri, who was generally considered to be a very attractive gentleman, nodded wistfully. “He always was the handsome one of the family. The rest of us were overshadowed entirely. I've never really understood why you didn't fixate upon him, Lizenne.”

Lizenne sniffed primly. “He wasn't you.”

“You guys are so cute,” Lance observed before turning back to Yantilee. “So, where does that leave us for the next few days? Is there something you need us for, other than making nice on politicians?”

Yantilee rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “Might be. Have you been through that pile of stuff that Thssskrakos dumped in your flight deck earlier?”

The Paladins glanced guiltily at each other. That particular pile of stuff had been ignored completely since it had been dropped there, not only by them, but by the Blades as well. It was something of a hallmark of both groups that they valued people over property, and had left the pile of miscellaneous treasure lying in the middle of the flight deck floor.

“No,” Shiro replied. “We've been too busy. Why?”

“Because Ghamparva don't steal anything that isn't significant to someone,” Yantilee stated. “Some of Kolivan's boys have been telling me war stories. Money's no big deal for Ghamparva, but cultural treasures? Those they hoard, the better to pressure people into behaving. You've cracked a trove or two in your time, Commander, or so I've been told.”

Kolivan nodded wordlessly, and Keith waved a hand. “We'll look into it,” the Red Paladin said, “Erantha needs a break from hospital duty, and maybe Kevaah knows something about that stuff, too. We'll get them to help. Sorting loot sounds like a good way to kill some time, and if we can return someone's Holy Grail or Spearhead of Destiny, then that's another ally for our side.”

Lizenne tapped the table with a claw. “I'll help with that, too. I spent a certain amount of time collecting legends from a great many interesting peoples once, and may be able to help identify some of the more obscure things.”

Pidge grinned. “Cool. I haven't helped to sort loot for ages. Let's do it!”

It didn't take long for Pidge to come to regret her words. Despite the fact that she herself was a scientist from a family of scientists, and knew very well that the careful and precise documentation of each specimen was essential, archaeology was not her forte. Every single one of those artifacts—literally over a ton of them—was indeed somebody's cultural treasure and worth a great deal more than just the cost of materials. Every last one of them had to be identified as to purpose, planet of origin, the population groups they belonged to, whether or not they were counterfeits, whether or not they had been damaged, whether they were part of a set, and numerous other factors, and then they had to be wrapped up and stored safely. All of that took a great deal of time despite the fact that Lizenne, Modhri, and the Blade of Marmora kept excellent records, and that Coran had actually encountered quite a few of them back in his day. It did not help that he also had a great many stories to tell about the peoples in question, and insisted upon telling all of them. In short, it took up most of the following three days, and was a lot more work than they had been expecting it to be.

Keith in particular had a small but painful headache; while some of the objects had been holy or aetherically-charged enough to protect the trove from the worst of the vile influence that had been stamped so deeply into the station itself, getting rid of the dregs of it had not been pleasant. Shiro was sore as well, although his was muscle pain; helping the others heave the slab of milky quartz back upright had been a strain. They'd been saving it for last, due to the massive weight of the thing. Despite the fact that he and his fellow Earthlings were much stronger now than they had been since they had left Earth, even with the help of the Galra and Alteans, all of whom were much stronger than the average Human, half a ton of stone was not a trivial weight to lift. At least they'd had the good sense to stand it the right way up. The inscriptions carved into the milky stone were complex enough without being upside down, and Lizenne started circling it the moment that they had gotten it steadied. It was more of a stela than anything else, double-beveled at the edges and about nine feet tall, and it was just translucent enough to make it look as though it had a subtle glow living within it.

“Well?” Lance grunted, stretching out his sore shoulders with a series of crackles and pops. “Will it start making hypnotic drumming sounds in the middle of the night, and give us all subliminal lessons on how to bash stuff with a thighbone?”

“No,” Lizenne said distractedly, pressing an ear to the pale surface, “although it is old enough to be one of those. This is an Elder Race artifact, and it is... ah. It's a small but vital portion of a much larger system. Hmm. Hunk, get a feel for this thing, if you would. It feels a bit like that Balmeran crystal you've got powering the Teludav system.”

Lance goggled at her as Hunk pressed his hands to the stone. “Wait, what? There really are people who go around giving cavemen monolith-boost treatments?”

“Were,” Lizenne said, narrowing her eyes at the stone. “The dragons tell me that there were several Elder Races who did that sort of thing. If they encountered a developing race in danger of evolutionary stagnation, they'd change them a bit to make them a little more innovative. Four of those races instituted those programs only where they felt the need to be the greatest. Two or three others actively took samples of any developing sophont they found, altered them a bit, and then plopped them down on another world with the right conditions. Sometimes as a joke, and other times just to see what would happen, which is why Humans and Galra can interbreed successfully. Two others... well, their motives were not so pure. One sought to make household slaves, food animals, and pets of the younger peoples. The other sought to make weapons of them.”

Pidge snapped her fingers. “And that's why places like the Szaracan Cluster exist, right? They started fighting. You said yourself that the Cluster was an old battleground. Hey, maybe Doodlebug and some of the other really big space monsters are leftover bio-weapons.”

Lizenne nodded grimly. “I know almost nothing about it, other than that the war was a big one, and that it lasted for several centuries. The slavers and the warmongers are gone, and the rest prefer not to meddle directly in the destinies of the younger peoples any more; indeed, many of them have vanished entirely from our knowledge, and nobody knows where they've gone, or whether they even still exist.”

“Well, whoever made this thing was one of the good guys,” Hunk said, running his fingers over the inscriptions. “This is a good rock. Check it out, Lance, this was made to help keep groundwater moving properly under... under a big valley or something.”

Lance laid his hands on the stone as well, listening intently. “You're right. A really big valley. A little like Napa Valley in California, only bigger. A lot bigger. Oh, crud, Hunk, we've got to get this thing back home soon—that system can't work right without this stone in it. It's a keystone, and the whole thing falls apart without it! Quick, does anyone know anything about where this might have come from?”

Kevaah raised a hand. “I overheard my captors speaking of a white stone, once, and laughing about how half a continent was beginning to wither and die of the lack of it. How the natives left offerings at the violated temple, beseeching the Great God Pinmanaichus to return that stone. That was some time ago, and they did not name the world it had come from.”

“Pinmanaichus?” Coran asked, stroking his mustache. “Now, there's a name I haven't heard in a long time. Not since Allura was very little, as a matter of fact. It was in a storybook, wasn't it, Princess? You were forever after me to read it to you, because I was best at doing the voices.”

Allura giggled. “And the little dance. You used to hide from me whenever you saw me coming with that book, and finding you soon became more fun than the story itself. It might have some clues for us. I still have that book among my treasures; just give me a moment, and I'll go and find it.”

Erantha watched her trot off, and then raised an accusatory eyebrow at Kevaah. “You did not tell Kolivan that.”

Kevaah shrugged. “He did not ask, and was not interested in asking. He wished to know the particulars of the base and of those who lived there. Whatever bits of art they might have stolen was of least importance at that time. He has not asked anything of me since. I am mad, and known to be mad. What would they say if I told them that the Ghamparva had a magic rock?”

“They wouldn't say a thing to you,” Lizenne snapped before anyone else could speak, and she shot a warning look at Erantha for good measure. “Not a thing, because you would come and tell your aunts about such a stone, and we would look into the matter for you.”

Zaianne followed that up with a firm nod. “If Kolivan decides to doubt _our_ word, then on his own head, so be it.”

Kevaah looked very surprised at this unexpected show of support, and then his face glowed with a wondering smile. Erantha looked as though she'd just bitten into a sour persimmon.

Keith glanced back and forth between them and asked, “This is another of those cultural things, right?”

“Very much so,” Zaianne replied in a mild tone, but her eyes glinted dangerously.

“Now, now, Ladies, that's quite enough,” Modhri murmured gently, and the three women winced and glanced apologetically at each other; not for the first time, Shiro reflected that the man had a subtle magic all of his own. “We'll explain it later, Keith. Here comes Allura with her book.”

It was a very impressive book, they saw a moment later. It was a genuine hardcopy volume, perhaps fourteen inches long and twelve wide, bound in some sort of iridescent green leather, and the cover showed what had to be a hand-painted picture of an exotic landscape. The title and author had been picked out in gold leaf and written in an elegant calligraphic style, and it was nearly four inches thick.

“I found it!” Allura said with a nostalgic smile. “Isn't it beautiful? It's a collection of old legends and lore from all over the Tilgranti Region, and it was given to me on my sixth birthday by one of the visiting Ambassadors.”

Coran chortled. “Ah, yes, I remember that. What a day that was, eh? A lovely party to gratify your pride with, my dear, lots of presents, a cake as big as you were, music, dancing, acrobats, a menagerie, and even a fireworks display. All your friends and relatives were there, and your father, too—he'd had to threaten three governments with grievous personal bodily harm to get them to leave him alone for that one day. That book was the cream of the loot, as I recall, and you and the fellow who gave it to you... that would have been the Emissary from Omploqua, I believe, crept off to some unused sitting-room, where he read it to you for the rest of the afternoon. That annoyed some of your aunts a great deal, young lady, although your little friends and cousins were just as happy not to have to fight you for their share of the cake.”

Lance grinned. “Sounds a little like my last big birthday bash, back when I was... what, twelve?”

Hunk nodded sagely. “Yup, a little bit. You had the whole family there, plus all your friends, plus all the neighbors. Your folks had to throw the party in your Aunt Lucia's back yard, 'cause hers was the biggest, with buntings and balloons and party hats, and you could smell the tamales cooking for miles. Come to think of it, that was the last big party that any of your folks threw, 'cause--”

Lance slumped sadly, his expression tragic. “Yeah. Carlos had a couple of his friends lure me away with that new video game, and then he and the rest of them stole all the presents, and the candy, and the cake. All the cakes, 'cause Dad had gotten, like, four or five of those big sheet cakes 'cause Mom didn't have time to make more than one of my favorite chocolate layer cakes--”

“--and they also tried to steal the cooler full of special imported soft drinks, but they got the wrong one by mistake,” Hunk continued. “That one was full of your Uncle Diego's moonshine that he'd disguised as juice bottles, and he was really mad to find that cooler missing--”

“--So he started yelling at Mr. Sowenson, who'd been stealing jugs of moonshine from his 'still for years, anyway,” Lance added, “but never that much all at once, so he got all mad and started shouting back, and his neurotic wife and their five neurotic teens sort of declared war, and before you knew it, there was a big brawl right there in the street 'cause Uncle Diego's brothers were with him--”

“--And none of those guys ever turned down a fight.” Hunk sighed. “You know, It wouldn't have been so bad if Mr. Breckenridge hadn't been hosting one of his survivalist meetings next door, but when Uncle Diego punched Dickie Sowenson through his back fence--”

“That sounds like it didn't end well,” Shiro interjected, hoping to head off any more anecdotes.

Lance rubbed at his eyes. “It didn't. Long story short, the whole neighborhood wound up getting involved. Old Mrs. Cavendish called the police in a panic—she's been convinced that the world was going to end any minute now for the past thirty years, and was sure that the Apocalypse was starting right there in her front yard. Then the police had to call the fire department 'cause somebody knocked over a couple of grills in the panic the cops caused when they came in with lights and sirens blazing, and after that, they had to get in the whole First Responders Corps to coax some of the smaller kids down out of trees and off roofs, and get some of the bigger ones out of Mrs. Tanaka's koi pond—that thing was eight feet deep in spots and had a waterfall, and some of her fish were big enough to ride on. Mrs. Hopkinson got a citation when her chickens attacked a police sergeant and two survivalists, and Carlos and his buddies got to spend the rest of the week in jail for petty theft and underage possession of alcohol, too. The cops looked really hard for Uncle Diego's 'still, but never found it, and Mom had a meltdown over the mess. My folks just took me to the aquarium for my next birthday.”

Zaianne smiled. “An excellent party, indeed. Where were you in all of that?”

Lance grinned sheepishly. “Racking up high scores on that video game. I had the headset on and the volume turned up, and I missed the whole thing. Hunk's sister got it all on video, though. It was great.”

“ _And_ you didn't get into trouble,” Allura said, flipping through her book.

“I,” Lance stated, drawing himself up proudly, “Was the only person who was completely blameless that day. Oh, and Hunk, too, because he rescued a couple of slices of cake for us. Everyone else got shouted at by the Fire Marshal and the Chief of Police, and Mr. Breckenridge and half of his survivalist buddies got taken away for felony possession of firearms—there was a whole arsenal in his basement, and more in their cars.”

Pidge gave him a sidelong look. “Your neighbors were interesting.”

Hunk grinned at her. “Never a dull moment. Hey, that's it!”

Sure enough, a carved white stela glowed on the page in Allura's storybook. “I knew that I had seen it somewhere before!” she said triumphantly. “Yes, here. _A Tale of Stones,_ as retold by Buintoth Unk-Bat-Moralam, and translated into Altean from the original Yink-P'Koo. That's a Pobolonian language, isn't it?”

“It is indeed, Princess, and wouldn't your tutors be proud of you for remembering that?” Coran said, winking slyly at the others. “Allura was an indifferent scholar when she was little.”

“I got better,” she said sharply, and flipped a few pages, smiling fondly at the ancient text. “Yes, I remember now. It tells the story of how half the world was once a terrible desert, and one that was getting bigger every year. The heroine of the story went on a long and difficult quest to find out what was happening to all of the water, and eventually found a conclave of mysterious beings. They took pity on her plight, and made a very great magic deep under the land; the only piece of it that was aboveground was the Stone of Mist, which tied all the parts of the magic together. The Stone was sacred, and the funny thing was that it was sacred all by itself—there were no gods involved at all, but the people built a shrine around it anyway for tradition's sake. Oh, and there's a note here—just a few decades before this book was written, the God Pinmanaichus manifested in full and blessed it personally, also for tradition's sake, and resolved to protect it from that day onward.”

Lizenne humphed, looking very interested. “Did the story happen to name the mysterious entities who carved it?”

Allura frowned and turned a few more pages. “I think so... yes. They're called 'Tha'Carso'.

“Threcarseo,” Modhri said firmly. “A very ancient Elder Race. I studied them once during my student years, mostly out of curiosity. Very little is known of them, save for their remarkable work with aetherically-driven hydraulic macrosystems; it's posited that they might have been a marsh-dwelling people, given how much importance they placed in their craft. It's very rare to find an intact example of their work these days.”

“People tend to steal the keystones,” Lizenne said, tapping the Stone with one sharp nail. “The Threcarseo always used large natural crystals for their work, and something about stones this size makes stonecarvers and jewelers salivate for some reason. Kings get greedy as well and will steal them, and then they get all upset when the lush landscape that these artifacts maintain begin to degrade. Nobody ever stops to consider that these might be placed where they are for a very good reason.”

Allura closed the book with a snap. “We do, and we will return that stone as soon as we can, and liberate the planet while we're at it,” she stated firmly. “For now, however, I am tired, dirty, and sore, and I want a soak in the hot tub after we get this stone crated up. Who wishes to join me?”

Before anyone could answer, a large Galra entered the room. He was one of Kolivan's men, and was remarkably quiet and self-effacing for someone who was more than eight feet tall and built like a tank. “That may have to wait,” he said with a respectful bow in the Princess's direction. “Kolivan wishes me to report that our strike upon Nelargo Shipyard has occurred, and went reasonably well.”

Modhri gave him a sharp look. “Only reasonably?”

“We were not able to do much,” he admitted. “Security is very tight over there, and the help that Khorex'Var could offer us was very limited. No one was killed, and injuries were limited to the security teams only.”

Modhri gave him a grim smile. “Those would have been the sons of Ghurap'Han, almost exclusively. Those of my Lineage who work at the Shipyard are never allowed to join the Security corps. Those men are overseers more than anything else, and often take unfair advantage of the rank. Continue.”

The Blade nodded. “We were able to cause some considerable damage to the production facilities, both on the assembly lines and in parts manufacture for the conventional warships. We were not able to strike at the Ghamparva-grade sections; the countermeasures were too great. Nonetheless, the Shipyard is in considerable disarray, and the Hoshinthra have been very active in that region. The Core Worlds are frantic; Nelargo is not all that far from Galran Prime, and fleets are being moved into position to protect those planets.”

Lizenne nodded slowly. “Let me guess; those four-hooved marauders are gearing up for a nice, entertaining diversion to draw those fleets out of position, which will allow us an opening to slip in unnoticed?”

The Blade actually shivered. “We think so. Their representative on the _Quandary_ laughs like a demon whenever we ask about it, and then says something cryptic that probably won't come clear until much later. The one thing that it will speak clearly about is that Tzairona must go home, and soon. Kolivan agrees; Jasca will be here late tomorrow, and we have already positioned several transport ships where they may jump in to take on passengers at a moment's notice.”

“So soon,” Lizenne muttered, and then stepped away from the Threcarseo artifact with a wry smile. “But only from our perspective. Tzairona has waited far too long for this moment. Have you informed those at the Shipyard of this?”

The Blade gestured an affirmative. “We have. Our contact informs us that they are more than ready to leave. Lady Inzera was not pleased with our actions.”

Modhri sighed and moved over to stand by Lizenne. “As if any of this was their fault.” He turned to face the Paladins, who had been watching them with great interest. “If you will excuse us? We have preparations of our own to make.”

“Go ahead,” Shiro replied. “Will you need an escort?”

Lizenne shook her head. “You'll be needed out here. I'm told that Jasca has ways of making sure that we will not be bothered, and taking some few of those treasures home will keep you properly busy. Personally, I recommend repatriating that Threcarseo artifact as soon as possible. We will be back as quickly as we can.”

“And with plenty of new friends to get to know,” Modhri added with a hopeful smile. “I will be very pleased to introduce you to my side of the family.”

“We'll be glad to have them,” Keith replied. “Good luck, you two.”

“Thank you,” Modhri said, and turned to go, his wife at his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are about to get noisy...


	28. Clean Dealings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't sleep, so here, a new chapter!

Chapter 28: Clean Dealing

Having run out of treasure to sort, it was decided that the project was at an end, and that the Stone should be put where it wouldn't fall over and squash anyone. Pidge was able to get one of the flight deck's freight drones to help with that wretchedly heavy item, and managed to get it wrapped up and tucked neatly away in a storage room in excellent time. After that, it was up to the Queen Emaltris Suite with everybody grunting and complaining about this sore muscle group or that bruise—the Stone had not gone quietly into its packaging—soaping off in the shower area, and then sliding into the gloriously warm water. All except for Coran, who had settled for a quick and blistering shower before heading back to the bridge; the mice and the dragons were minding the helm for them at the moment, and he didn't trust Tilla not to blow wet raspberries at foreign dignitaries while he himself was in the bath.

Shiro, on the other hand, was pleased to take his place in the shallow end, and let out a long and happy sigh as he sank in up to his chin. He had recovered more or less fully from a physical standpoint, but there was always just a little bit of... drag, he supposed one might call it. Unlike the others, his Lion-gifted talent was always active, like a security program running constantly in the background and sending up the occasional alert. As a result, there was a small but measurable drain on his system. He didn't mind too much; the talent had come in far too handy too many times to object to it, but he ate a great deal more than he used to, and sleep came easily whether he wanted it to or not.

It would come very easily tonight, he knew, leaning back against the smooth stone of the tub walls; for now, he was content to soak the aches away and allow the warm water to soothe his nerves. After a time, he opened his eyes a slit to observe the others. As usual, the Galra had gravitated toward the waterfall, and he smiled to see Zaianne helping Kevaah to rinse the last of the suds out of his thick fur. The man had a pelt almost like an otter's, and getting it clean without the help of a 'fresher or a decontam booth required some work. Erantha had put Zaianne between herself and the dark-furred man, and was sluicing out her hair; Shiro reflected that it was just as well that Galra women didn't have much to show across the upper torso most of the time, because the tank tops that the ladies wore for politeness's sake in the tub went transparent almost instantly. Made a little uneasy by the thought, he switched his gaze to his teammates... just in time to see Allura rise like a water nymph from the pool and shake out her gleaming falls of silky white hair. Alteans were physically very similar to Humans, and Shiro had to avert his eyes again. This time to Hunk, who was... oh, god, he was flexing, and his entire torso was _amazing._ Softened a bit by the belly that he so carefully maintained for extra energy reserves, but still amazing, and ridiculously huggable. Shiro's eyes flicked to Lance, who had also stood up and was reaching for the long-handled scrubber that he used for scratching his back. Shiro had already gotten a good look at his lean, muscular build before this, but it just improved upon further inspection. Keith... oh god. Keith had just lunged up out of the water like an alligator from a swamp, seizing the scrubber by the bristled end, and he was definitely showing his Galra heritage in the long, powerful torso and limbs. Watching the two of them having a tug-of-war over the brush was entertaining in more ways than one. The fight intensified a moment later when Pidge leaped up between them like a dolphin, snatching the brush and splashing away with a gleeful cackle. She had filled out in a number of ways as well, and Shiro could not help but to observe all of them. In detail. _Holy crud,_ he thought to himself as the three of them wrestled vigorously for possession of the backscratcher, _I'm surrounded by teen fantasies. They're all so beautiful, and they don't even know it._

The attraction he felt for them wasn't just emotional, he found out a second later; his own body was now in perfect health and was making its own opinions known. Very... um... pointedly, as a matter of fact. Oh, god, these were his teammates, as close to him now as blood relatives, not a harem of... how had Matt referred to them... of thugs in color-coded underwear.

Hunk and Allura had joined the battle for the backscratcher, and there was a great deal of bouncing and splashing going on. Shiro swallowed hard and blushed harder as something iniquitous in the back of his mind snickered, _Allura actually occupied a harem for a little while. Presumably, she would have picked up a few tips..._

Shiro pushed that shameful and disrespectful thought away as hard as he could, but it kept creeping back. It had been a very, very long time since he had considered romance of any sort.

Shiro's blush intensified. He had to get out of here, had to take a moment to calm himself, and above all, had to convince parts of himself to chill, already. Unfortunately, there was no way in hell that he'd be able to escape without somebody noticing. Oh, god, he didn't know which would kill him faster, the sly insinuations of the Galra ladies or the probable reactions from his team, assuming that his own embarrassment didn't get him first. Naturally, right at that moment, Hunk happened to notice his expression.

“Hey, Shiro, are you feeling okay?” Hunk asked. “It's not all that warm in here, but you're as red as a boiled lobster.”

Pidge popped out from behind him, holding the brush. “Do you need help with something?”

One of the straps of her bathing suit had slipped down her arm during the splashing, and she was showing a bit more skin than she should be. Shiro stared at that for a moment, stared at the brush, and then sank beneath the water. Maybe if he drowned himself right now it would save him the trouble of having to explain himself. It was not to be, alas, for Hunk caught him under the arms and hauled him back up above the surface, spluttering and gasping.

“Dude, what is with you?” Hunk asked, looking worried. “You're not having a seizure or a mermaid Vision, or--”

He looked down.

“Oh,” Hunk said, and then smiled broadly. “Well, that works.”

“And it's in proportion with the rest of him,” Pidge added, much to Shiro's growing sense of mortification. “Nice.”

As if that wasn't bad enough, Keith and Lance came over to see what was going on. Keith, at least, looked sympathetic, but Lance gave him a sly grin and a salacious eyebrow waggle. “'Bout time,” he remarked. “Just so you know, Shiro, we feel the same way about you.”

“And about each other, here and there,” Allura said, peering appraisingly over Keith's shoulder. “Oh, yes, very nice.”

If he blushed any harder, he would spontaneously combust, Shiro just knew it. “Sorry,” he muttered.

Allura gave him a smile that was both comforting and affectionate. “Don't be. It's all right, Shiro, it really is. We love you. If it makes you feel any better, Alteans have different taboos than Humans do, and a well-endowed gentleman has nothing to be afraid of, socially. You should have seen Father's courtiers when that fad for fancy codpieces went through—Father refused to have anything to do with it, thankfully, although Mother and my aunts often had to adjourn to a private sitting room so that they could laugh themselves silly. At least the men of both our peoples appear to be roughly the same shape down there as well.”

_College age,_ Shiro thought desperately, remembering the fog of rampant hormones that the average young adult moved through every day,  _and Pidge's parents are scientists. All of them already know the... um... mechanics. Enough to make dirty jokes, at least. Oh, god, and here comes one now..._

“So,” Hunk said, bouncing him gently. “Any favorites? Y'know, who'd you pick first with to do odd jobs with?”

“Like laying pipe?” Lance asked.

Shiro winced at this rather inelegant double entendre. “No. You haven't been experimenting with each other, have you?”

It was their turn to blush, and rather rosily in spots. Keith and Pidge glanced guiltily at each other, although the look that passed between Hunk and Allura was more affectionate than anything else. “Nothing more than kisses,” Allura assured him, blushing prettily. “Although Pidge's first was quite a good one.”

Pidge went very red, and so did Keith. “How--?”

Allura smirked. “You aren't the only one whom the Castle talks to, and the mice tell me everything.”

“I knew it!” Lance said triumphantly, nudging Keith with an elbow. “So, what was it like, pal? Was it nice? I bet her kisses are nice. I bet yours was like smooching a beached carp--”

Hunk elbowed him. “So, find out for yourself, Lance. Go ahead. I've been waiting for you and him to smooch for months now. He'll like yours. I know that personally.”

Keith grinned as Lance turned bright red. “Seriously? You two?”

Hunk grinned and patted Lance on the back as he deflated. “Sure. We practiced on each other in middle school, and got pretty good at it. I'm just glad that his weird cousin Maria-Dolores never caught us at it. She would have had an infarct.”

Lance moaned. “Don't even suggest that.”

“Children,” Zaianne's voice said from the poolside, and they turned to see her standing with a stack of towels in her arms; Shiro felt himself willing to kiss her just for that. “It's been a long afternoon, and we, at least, are starting to seriously consider the possibility of dinner. Shall we?”

“Yes,” Shiro said, just a little more quickly than he'd intended, although he heard the merriment of the Lions in the back of his mind, and reached for a towel. “I worked up an appetite sorting those treasures. Thank you.”

Zaianne gave him a smile and a quirk of the eyebrows that told Shiro that she'd known precisely what sort of discussion she was breaking up. A glance over at the other Galra told him that they did, too, or mostly, although Erantha merely looked amused and Kevaah looked faintly puzzled. That would make sense, Shiro thought grimly as he heaved himself out of the pool and wrapped the towel around his waist. Neither the Blades nor the Ghamparva would have wanted a man like that thinking about girls. Shiro was fairly sure that it would be up to Zaianne, Lizenne, and Modhri to have the “birds and bees” talk with him, and was profoundly grateful that it wasn't his responsibility. Explaining it to Keith had been bad enough.

He was just as grateful for Hunk's passion for culinary matters a few minutes later; Bessie, apparently, was a championship-grade cow and had been producing enough milk to provide for not only Lance's promised flan, but for several wheels of what would eventually be cheddar, colby, Monterey jack, and a few other things. Hunk had also made up a few more balls of mozzarella, and was plotting pizza. The very thought made Shiro salivate; Hunk had tried his best to find analogues for the Earthly ingredients, and with some success. Only the cheese had thwarted him before, and that was no longer an issue. Now it was just a matter of toppings, and the whole team had differing opinions on that subject, which they were expressing at the tops of their voices. They were still hotly debating the virtues of atinbuk sausage over fried ground zaar-beast when they heard a loud _clonk_ coming from the kitchen, and a curse that didn't sound like Coran. It gratified a part of Shiro to see everyone suddenly become intent upon that unexpected sound; one sign of a potential threat and they were all business.

Fortunately, the intruder wasn't an enemy, and the voice doing the cussing was a familiar one. “Nasty?” Pidge asked, motioning Kevaah and Erantha to stand down, “is that you? What are you doing here?”

Sure enough, the Unilu popped his head out of one of the larger cabinets and scowled at them. “Trying to find out where Hunk hid the temmin okk. Can you believe that Kaslep forgot to order any more for the _Quandary's_ kitchen? There are a bunch of us on board right now, you'd think he would have been smart enough to keep a stash on hand, but no! He went ahead and forgot it, and now my people get to teach him the error of his ways while I get my emergency stash from here. Where'd you hide it, Hunk?”

Keith grinned. “What's it worth to you?”

Nasty smiled broadly. “Good! At least you can remember the basics. Fork it over, pal, or I won't tell you the other reason for why I'm here.”

Lance smirked. “Is it a good reason?”

Nasty waved a couple of hands conditionally. “Might be, might be. No temmin okk, no info.”

Kevaah gave the Unilu a puzzled look. “Who is this?”

“I should be asking you and your girlfriend there that,” Nasty retorted. “Varda, have you been bringing home strays again?”

Pidge stuck out her tongue at him, ignoring the two Galra's offended protests. “Nope. Kevaah here is Hunk's and Lance's, and Erantha followed us home all by herself. Guys, this is Nasty, and he's mostly trustworthy.”

“ _Mostly?”_ Nasty demanded, flushing a darker olive in outrage.

“Oh all right, he's only slightly trustworthy,” Pidge allowed. “He's a scheming, thieving, money-grubbing, pocket-picking pain in the ass, and he cheats at cards.”

Nasty relaxed with an appreciative smile. “Thank you, that's better. I've got a reputation to maintain, after all. Now bring out those cans or I'll charge you rent.”

Hunk scowled. “Hey now, they've been taking up valuable space in the pantry--”

“Just give him the cans, Hunk,” Zaianne said sourly. “I've stubbed my toes on them three times in the past week and I'm tired of having them around.”

Nasty smiled beatifically. “Perfect.”

Hunk nodded and ventured over to the pantry, where he hauled out two six-packs of large and battered cans. “Here you go, Nasty, banged up but not breached, and...” he glanced down at a particularly large dent. “Ooh, that looks like it must have hurt. You didn't break a toenail, did you, Zaianne?”

“Just chipped it,” Zaianne replied, glaring at the cans. “And make sure that he takes away the pickled gropp as well; I could swear that it's been giving me dirty looks.”

Nasty grinned. “That's how you know it's prime. Yeah, just pull out all of the good stuff for me, will you? Some of the new guys are pretty young and need more polish on their haggling skills. I want to give them some real incentive, you know? So, what have you guys been up to? Rumor has it that you broke a Ghamparva base a couple of weeks ago by hitting it with a Hoshinthra.”

“That's us,” Lance replied grimly, leaning against the counter. “You weren't kidding about how bad those guys were. Everyone's been so busy with the cleanup that we weren't able to get around to sorting out the salvage until just the past few days.”

“Salvage?” Nasty said with a glint in his eye. “What kind of salvage?”

“Treasure,” Pidge said, plopping down on a stool. “Sacred objects, cultural artifacts, amazingly significant ornaments, and a really big magic rock. The Doom Moose didn't want it, so they dumped it in the flight deck. There were so many rescued prisoners to deal with that we wound up just leaving it there for something like two weeks.”

“ _What?”_ Nasty said in a horrified squawk. “Left it there? For two weeks? Where anyone could steal it?”

Allura shrugged. “Kolivan's people were even busier than we were. No one had the time or energy for theft.”

Nasty whimpered in outrage. “Didn't you take a little something for yourself, then, like a finder's fee?”

“We couldn't,” Keith replied. “The Ghamparva weren't interested in common loot, Nasty. It's all the sort of treasure that disrupts whole civilizations when it goes missing. We're going to have to return every bit of it.”

“ _Herpaderp!”_ Nasty screamed, waving all four fists in the air. “You aren't even considering the possibility of ransoming it, are you? You're going to trade it all for alliances, and you probably won't even accept a reward! _Heroes!_ You're all completely hopeless!”

“Yes, actually.” Shiro chuckled at the Unilu's furious expression. “In the long run, the alliances will be worth more than any reward, and everybody will profit from them. That's what we're for—we make it safe for other people to do business, including you.”

Nasty humphed. “Your unselfishness offends me.”

“Yeah, but it gets you treats,” Hunk said, placing a stasis-pack of wuskor shank on the pile of other Unilu goodies. “This is the last of it—oh, right. Erantha, did Lizenne ever get around to testing that can I gave her?”

Erantha, who had been watching this exchange with considerable interest, wrinkled her nose. “She did, and it's harmless to Unilu; the rest of it is in the cooler.”

“Great,” Hunk said, moving toward the fridge. “Nasty, there's something I want you to try. The Hoshinthra got us some stuff from the Mall, and there was one thing from Earth that none of us like, but might just be right up your alley.”

Nasty stared at him. “You made a Hoshinthra do your shopping? What were they getting you, the bloody skulls of the mall cops?”

“No, just a cow. They're free with purchase at the Terra store, so they purchased some things.” Hunk handed him a tub full of something brown and mushy. “Here, take a taste.”

Nasty glared suspiciously at the tub. “You have tested it fully, right? I'm not a lab animal.”

“Lizenne gave it a good looking at,” Hunk replied. “Erantha just said that it was safe, right? It's just not to our taste, is all. The mice didn't want it either.”

Nasty gave him another suspicious glare, but no Unilu will turn down a treat that he doesn't have competition for. He examined it from all angles, weighed it in his hands, and even held it up to one ear and shook it for a moment before popping the lid and taking a sniff. The others had the amusing experience of seeing him go pop-eyed in surprise, and then watched in mild disgust as he ripped the lid off and shoveled a lump into his mouth; while some of them had had worse, it did not smell all that attractive.

“This is...” he mumbled after a moment, tears streaming down his face, “... this is ambrosial. It's _fantastic._ What _is_ this stuff?”

“Canned haggis,” Pidge said, holding her nose. “Sheep's heart, liver, and lungs, boiled up in its own stomach with some oats and onions and things. You really like it?”

“I love it!” Nasty said and buried his face in the tub, gobbling messily while the others watched in horrified fascination. “It's—mmph—perfect! Tell me you have more!”

“Five cans,” Hunk said. “You're sure? It smells like funky dog food.”

Nasty wiped crumbs from his face, licked his fingers clean, and then glared at Hunk. “My people evolved from middling-sized scavengers. We  _like_ funky meat. We like it a lot. Nothing beats a really good side of properly aged meat, and organ meats are high-class cuisine where I come from. Do you have any idea what you people have done? This has everything—protein, carbohydrates, fiber, vitamins, minerals, vital trace elements, and tons of flavor. You've made a health food taste good,  _and you will give me those cans right now!_ I'm going to take them home and buy my citizenship back with them, then I'm going to bribe the Council of Swindlers into finding your planet and protecting it forever and ever, because any planet that can come up with the food of the Gods like this deserves protecting! We'll open a huge market for it! Whole populations will become very rich! Humanity will be awarded permanent 'Merely Annoying' trade status! I almost forgive you for leaving a pile of treasure around in the open for two weeks! Now hand over those cans!”

Hunk smiled. “First one's always free, pal. What's it worth to you?”

For a moment, they thought that Nasty might explode. Instead, he wrapped all four arms around Hunk's waist in a huge hug. “Best student ever!” Nasty sobbed. “All right, fine. There's a big crate in the dining room, all the way from Xelocia. I was going to fight Lance for it, but this is better. Now, gimme.”

Lance immediately turned and headed for the dining room, where a large crate had indeed been deposited in the spot where the dragons usually ate when visiting. It was a simple cube about three feet on a side, and it had obviously had a hard trip; there were dozens of transshipment stickers all over it, numerous dents and scrapes marred the heavy metal panels, and there was a huge scorch mark all down one side where someone had tried to get into it with a cutting torch. Several someones had inscribed numerous pithy comments and insults in a variety of languages on the thing as well, some of which he could even read.

“Wow,” Lance said, circling the crate to get the whole experience. “Who do I call to complain about shipping damage, Teach? It looks like someone tried to chew their way into the crate right here, and are these acid burns?”

Nasty came in, clutching his precious haggis cans to his bosom. “You're lucky that it got here at all. Everything from Xelocia is restricted, and has to be funneled through the Kedrekan market hub. That thing was passed from smuggler to pirate to other smuggler all the way across the cosmos. Your Xelocian friend had to use one of their high-security crates, which shows some sense. He took your thumbprint, right? Just touch the crate and it should pop right open.”

Lance pressed his thumb to the box, which hummed ominously for a moment and then the seals parted with a hiss. The walls of the crate couldn't have been less than six inches thick, he noticed as the lid slid back, revealing a well-wrapped bundle with a small note pinned to it. It had been written in Galran standard script, alas, and Lance wasn't as proficient with that language as he would have liked.

“Hey, Zaianne, what does this say?” he asked.

She stepped up to peer at it over his shoulder. “It's from Jilphix-Farr, and he says... ah. The material he promised you as your reward for his rescue should be in that bundle, along with instructions on how to work it, and some legal paperwork to be filled out for when you feel inclined to send him pictures.”

“Cool!” Lance said, grabbing the mysterious bale. “Back in a minute, guys, gotta-go-bye.”

Erantha watched him hurry away in mild confusion. “Dare I ask?”

Zaianne smiled, anticipating a good deal of eye candy in the near future. “A promise has been kept, and Xelocians are generous when they feel the need to be. Kevaah, be a dear and help me get this crate into storage, it may be useful later. Hunk, are you going to make that pizza?”

“Sure,” Hunk replied. “Galra like pizza?”

“This Galra certainly does,” Zaianne told him, “preferably with sausage and sliced phor bulbs.”

“Gotcha,” Hunk said. “All right, Nasty, let's just get all that stuff packed up and out of the way. It's time to put the mozzarella to the test. Will you want to stay for dinner?”

“Can't,” Nasty said sadly. “I go back on duty in thirty doboshes, and I shouldn't really be here at all. Too much stuff is happening right now for running nonessential errands.”

Pidge raised an eyebrow at him. “Is canned haggis nonessential?”

“Absolutely not!” the Unilu snapped back. “I must have caught a rash of hunches off of Shiro, or the universe just really wanted this event to come to pass. Seriously, this is going to turn our entire trade network upside down. Your planet is precious and must be protected!”

Shiro chuckled. “I'll agree to that.”

At that moment in a completely different region of space, the results of the initial test of Hunk's mozzarella were about to make an impact upon an unsuspecting planet. Up to that moment, it had been a pretty normal day for Commander Sam Holt and his son Matt, who were currently at work in their command center, overseeing the construction of the first Earthly spacecraft that would be capable of interstellar flight. It had been a long, strange trip to get to this point, although an unusually fast one. The emergence of the blue Lion and the sighting of the Galra warship that had been lurking in the outer orbits three years prior had caused a carefully-concealed flurry of abject panic in the upper echelons of Earth's militaries, and Lizenne's “mail run” and the messages she had delivered had only made it worse. The whole world knew that Humanity was by no means alone in the universe, and the populace had been clamoring nonstop for more information ever since, causing headaches at presidential levels and beyond. Sam and Matt's rescue and their nearly-invisible repatriation had come as a vast relief to the General Staff, particularly because they had brought with them an incredible treasure trove of vital data. Sam frowned whenever he remembered those initial debriefing sessions, which had been difficult for both him and his son. Of course, he then had to smile. His lovely wife Colleen had forced her way in and laid down the law as to how her husband and son should be treated, and not even the top brass could deny her. Colleen was a juggernaut, and he was proud of her. The following months had been spent in a whirlwind of activity as Earth did its best to catch up on a technological level with their nearest neighbors, overcoming long-standing conflicts in favor of surviving a much bigger one. It seemed inevitable now that Humanity would reach the stars, and Sam was determined to see that it would come to pass. On the offhand, he wondered how his equally-unstoppable daughter was doing. Despite Earth's sudden, rampant interest in space exploration and the construction of numerous outposts on Mars and the Jovian Moons, they had been largely ignored by the wider universe. Sam was pretty sure that the lone Galra patrol ship was still lurking out there in the Kuiper Belt somewhere, but it had kept its distance. Perhaps Katie and her friends had been doing things that had drawn it away from its post.

Sam sighed and tried not to feel envious of his heroic offspring, bending his attention once again to the necessary but dull progress reports. He knew full well that Katie couldn't call home very often, for fear that someone would trace the signal or follow the messenger; Earth couldn't afford to be noticed right now, and--

“Huh,” one of the orbital-security officers said, “that's odd.”

“What happened?” Sam asked.

“We've just picked up a signal. Very faint, and a long way outside the orbit of Pluto.” The officer tapped a few buttons and gazed thoughtfully at the readout. “I think it was that Galra patrol ship. If so, it saw something that it didn't like. There were a few large energy pulses... ah. And a jump signature. It shot at something a few times, and then left in a hurry.”

Sam looked around, hope blooming in his heart. Could it be...?

An alarm blared suddenly, and one of the other officers let out a strangled scream. That was Major Toshi, who was a good man, if a little high-strung. Sam looked up at the screens, which now showed something unexpected—three unfamiliar starships, huge and glossy-black, had appeared out of nowhere, and were now floating ominously near the Moon.

“Commander Holt!” Toshi yelped, “Who are they?”

Sam blinked at the rather sinister-looking craft and shook his head. “I don't know. They aren't Galra. Hold on, Matt might know. Matt?”

Matt, who had been on the other side of the room going over programming schematics, hurried over to stare at the screens. “Whoa,” he muttered. “I've only ever heard stories about those. Wait, there was only supposed to be one of them. Why are there three?”

Toshi gave them a suspicious look. “Black ships,” he growled unhappily, and Sam recalled that Toshi was something of a history buff; Japan had bad memories concerning black ships. “Do you know those people?”

“Only from horror stories,” Matt replied, eyes glued to the screen, “they're called Hoshinthra, and they eat Galra. Everybody's terrified of them.”

Before Toshi could ask further questions, a hollow, hissing whisper of a voice insinuated itself through the console's speakers like graveyard mist at midnight. _“We greet you, Humans,”_ it said, and did Sam detect a hint of amusement in its tone? _“We bring a message from the Paladins. Heed their words, for they hold much import concerning the future of your planet.”_

Sam, Matt, and Toshi glanced worriedly at each other; the communicator was already beeping frantically with calls from the General Staff and any number of other concerned parties. They ignored it.

The screens stuttered slightly, and then showed a large, white-walled room that Sam recognized as the Castle's main lounge. Something joggled the recorder, and an achingly familiar voice said, _“Quit messing around, guys, this is important!”_

“ _I know, it's just weird,”_ another voice, this one recognizable as Keith's, replied. _“Seriously, Hunk? I mean, you're magic in the kitchen and it really was good, but this takes the cake.”_

“ _No, it took the cheese, and so did you guys. Rude, man.”_

“ _Pidge, you've still got crumbs on your chin! At least wipe them off before addressing the multitudes.”_ That was Allura, sounding a little worried.

“ _Sorry—mmm—oh, crud, is this thing on? Hey! Get your nose out of that!”_

The screen was suddenly full of a horrifying visage. The bare white bone of what might have been a horse's skull if equines had evolved to eat meat grinned at them suddenly, huge black moth antennae branching up and out of where the eyes should have been. A small hand shot out, grabbed the monster's nasal bone, and pushed it away, allowing an irritated young lady to take its place. Sam gasped. That was his daughter, and she had matured considerably.

“ _Sorry about that,”_ she said, _“Doom Moose are pushy. I've still got that place on my shelf, pal. Your butt's as good as any other Hoshinthra's.”_

Matt snickered at that growled aside to the grinning skull, which turned and nipped playfully at Katie's hair, only to receive a smack across the jaw.

“ _Okay,”_ she said with a withering glare at the monster. _“People of Earth, greetings from the Paladins of Voltron—that's us—and fair warning. This big scary guy here is a Hoshinthra, and they've decided to protect Earth and our whole solar system from the Empire from now until whenever, and they'll do it for cheese. Yes, sorry, cheese. Don't ask how we got the cow, but Hunk just made these guys some mozzarella, and they_ really _like it. I'm not making that up. I_ wish _that I was making that up, but I'm not. In return for a steady supply of cheese, these people are going to make sure that the Empire stays out of our backyard, and they can do it, too. Galra are scared silly of these guys, and for really good reason. Just give them the cheese. Whatever you do, don't try to cheat them or give them that processed 'cheese food' stuff unless they ask for it, because they will_ know. _They don't have eyes, but they are super not blind. Give them a tour of Wisconsin in the winter, or maybe let them run around Antarctica a little. They like cold places with lots of ice and snow. The best way to deal with them is to show no fear, and to slap back when they get pushy. Believe it or not, they love it. Dad, Matt, if you're listening to this, don't let anyone do something stupid! Hoshinthra are really big, super-dangerous predators and are much smarter than they look, and have abilities and sciences that even I can't figure out. Seriously, seriously don't try to spy on, get biological samples from, steal stuff from, shoot at, or otherwise annoy them. I'm pretty sure that they won't go back on the deal, but they see nothing wrong with biting off someone's head for being dumb.”_

“ _That's right!”_ A second face joined Katie's, and Sam observed that Lance had grown up a little as well. _“Me and Hunk just had to watch them take out a space station full of Ghamparva—that's like, totally evil super-secret-agent-ninja-grade Galra, and those guys didn't stand a chance. Now, admittedly, we did soften them up some first, but—”_

“ _No, we didn't, Kevaah did, and we didn't watch.”_ That was Hunk, sounding exasperated. _“We did see gore splashed up to the ceiling in spots, and that was enough, believe me. Trust me, guys, Rudolph here can bite through a tank, but they like cheese better. Stick to the agreement, give them any sort of cheese they want to try, and don't quibble if they want a lot of it. It's worth it to keep Imperial warships out of Earth orbit. Shiro, come over here and tell the military guys that Gruyere is better than grenades.”_

The communicator was beebling furiously now. Sam poked it, listened to the frantic demands for information, and then turned away to let his superiors work off their panic by themselves in favor of watching the sober figure of his old friend give a somewhat more comprehensive report. He looked good, Sam thought, and more interestingly, his right arm was no longer mechanical. His dark eyes showed a strange new depth of knowledge as well, and there was an air around that odd little group that hadn't been there before, one that he found difficult to define. The Hoshinthra, a frightening combination of deerlike and reptiloid features, clattered abruptly aside, and he smiled to see Soluk peering curiously over Shiro's shoulder. Sam heard Toshi gasp at the sight of the six-eyed dragon, and didn't blame him; the dragons were alarming, if only at first. Shiro reached up absently and patted the dragon's nose without skipping a beat.

“ _In conclusion,”_ Shiro said calmly, _“they are valuable allies who stand ready to do us a great service for very little in return. I apologize for the abruptness of the arrangement, but once they've decided to do something, they do it, and with little or no need for further delay or discussion. To be blunt, we need them, and so do you. We'll try to find Earth some other allies who are less alarming, but for now, this is what we've got, and we'll have to make the best of it. Good luck.”_

The screen went dark. _“Message ends,”_ the Hoshinthra hissed, and yes, that was satisfaction in its tone. _“We have come to take up this duty. Will you wish a face-to-face meeting?”_

Sam glanced at the comm again, which was beginning to emit wisps of smoke from the speaker as well as angry squawking from the frightened dignitaries. “In a little time, perhaps,” he replied. “May I know the names of our new guardians?”

There was a faint humph from the unseen speaker. _“You, at least, are polite. We are the Talssenemaia Hssshakuram, Mlansssurak, and Cassschalanva: The Long Darkness, The Impenetrable Mystery, and Strider Of The Great Void. You will speak to us through our sons when they arrive to speak with you.”_

Well, Shiro had mentioned that the Warleaders and their ships were one and the same, Sam mused, and that they communicated with the Warriors through something very like telepathy. On the console, the communicator spat sparks and shorted out. He was going to get into trouble over this, but didn't much care. The Hoshinthra looked and sounded absolutely fascinating, and he was, as always, eager to learn.

It was just past lunchtime the following day, and halfway to a mutiny. Nasty's recent visit had caused certain of the team to realize something very important had been lacking in their lives, and that restitution was necessary.

“Frankly, Allura, I'd rather give a rhino a Brazilian wax job,” Pidge said grumpily. She had overdone it with last night's pizza and had woken up with a sour stomach, and as a result was not at her best. “I'm tired. We've been working super hard and have all been really stressed. The treasures were pretty and everybody who was hurt is healing up nicely, but I don't even want to look at either of them right now. Can't we take a break?”

“She's got a point,” Hunk said, scratching at his belly. “Lance and I never even came close to that Space Mall, and none of you have had it any easier. Shiro hasn't been off this ship hardly at all if it wasn't in a Lion, the _Chimera's_ off-limits at the moment and Keith's starting to climb the walls, and don't tell me that you're any better, Allura. You haven't had a real break since we visited Halidex. Coran, Zaianne, any votes?”

Coran sipped thoughtfully at his tea. “You're asking me? I've been more or less stranded here every time you've had to go out. Right now, I'd do something downright iniquitous if it meant that I got to see a sky from the inside. Where had you intended on going?”

Pidge scowled into her cup. “I was hoping that one of you would have an idea.”

Coran gestured a negative. “Nope. We're well beyond the edges of the starlanes I'm familiar with. Madame?”

Zaianne shrugged. “I'm outside of my territory as well. This spot was specifically chosen for its remoteness, after all. I could ask Bantax if he knows a handy place to take an afternoon's outing in.”

Allura and Lance were trying to look reluctant; it was indeed very important that they start repatriating those treasures, now that the last of the Ghamparva's victims had been moved off of the ship and fully into the Blades' care, but Pidge did have a valid point. It had been so very long since they had done anything purely for pleasure, and despite the Castle's roomy architecture, the walls were starting to feel like they were closing in upon them.

“All right,” Allura said indulgently, her sense of responsibility complaining all the way, “if Bantax can suggest a suitable place within pod range, and if we can find someone to mind the helm for us, we'll take a break. To tell you the truth, I could do with some fresh air as well... preferably some without a cow in it.”

That raised a few snickers around the table. While the Hydroponics decks did allow for a goodly amount of extra oxygen for the ventilation system to play with, Bessie contributed a certain olfactory signature that was just a bit pungent for comfort, and one that had escaped into the rest of the ship before Hunk had found the faulty air filter. It was a price they were willing to pay, though. Many of the plants growing down there appreciated the fertilizer, and Hunk had made a custard for tonight's dessert that had brought tears of joy to every eye present.

Zaianne chuckled. “Quite. I could do with a run across some rooftops myself, and I'll ask Kevaah and Erantha if they would like to come along as well.”

“Sounds like a plan, Mom,” Keith said, picking up plates.

She was gone only long enough for them to clear the table, and surprisingly, she was alone when she returned. “Erantha's helping aboard one of the Order's hospital ships today,” Zaianne said, whisking a wipe from a nearby canister and using it to clear crumbs from the tabletop. “One of the rescuees helped to train her, and she had never thought to see him again after he had disappeared. Kevaah's currently on the bridge, where Tilla and the mice are teaching him to play Dix-Par. They'll be fine for a few hours, I think.”

Hunk smiled broadly. “I've just refilled the cookie jar and he can see magic, so that's cool. What did Bantax say?”

Zaianne tossed the used wipe into a waste chute with casual precision. “According to him, we're within reach of Thek-Audha, which is a Gray Port—they might pay their dues to the Empire and engage in legal trade, but they will also allow business with smugglers, pirates, black-marketeers, rebels, information thieves, and Unilu, as well as anyone with a pocket full of ready currency. The planet is run by a Council of Bosses, who happen to be all Hepplans.”

Pidge brightened up. “Like Tepechwa!”

“Very much so,” Zaianne agreed. “They may even be related. Hepplans make very savvy administrators, and Thek-Audha's contingent of them has opened relations with the Order.”

Lance grinned. “I get it. They're starting to get tired of paying tribute to the Galra, right? And you guys have a big 'in' with the Fleet.”

“And us,” Shiro added.

“Precisely.” Zaianne gave them all a sly smile. “Bantax will even provide transport, if you will consent to show up and overawe the Council a bit with your heroic presence. It won't take long, since Hepplans don't dither, and then we might take a stroll around the markets.”

“That would be wonderful!” Coran said happily. “Why, it's been literally ages since I've ambled down the crowded byways of a proper open market. The last one was... yes, it was the famous Upthrammi Kasbah, where a fellow with the means could find anything at all, no matter how rare or obscure. Went there to find Alfor and Melenor a proper anniversary present, actually. Had a lovely time, so I did, and even found a real treasure: a piece by Bashput Dran-Obliunt, the renowned Recondite ceramicist. Gorgeous work, stunning glazes, had a tendency to confuse theoretical physicists. Nobody ever found out just how the artist managed to bend time and space with what was essentially dirt, and his kilns were reportedly very strange. Melenor used it as a reading lamp.”

“The Upthrammi Kasbah still exists, despite the efforts of thousands of well-meaning officials,” Zaianne told him, “and has inspired the formation of countless markets much like it on hundreds of other worlds. Shall we talk to Bantax about visiting one of its offspring?”

“Yes!” Pidge said, and the others echoed her enthusiasm.

At roughly the same time but at some considerable distance away, Senior Engineer Marzad shook his head gravely and tapped a list on the screen with a callused finger. “Only three cases left, sir,” he told Tilwass. “They aren't large parts, only half as big as your fist, but they're absolutely necessary, and they have to be swapped out every three weeks on the dot. Miss that dot by so much as an hour and the whole ship just shuts down. There's a reason why the _Keptalpa-_ Class was discontinued, you know. Far too many vital parts with far too short a working life, and the Emperor got tired of it about fifty years ago and sent 'em out to the Fringes to die. We've got enough for one more swapping-out, and then they're done. After that, you're better off selling the ships to the Hepplans as scrap.”

Tilwass humphed uneasily. “And you can't make them here?”

Marzad sighed. “We could, if we repurposed one of the newer ships into an orbital factory, but that would take months. You need a lot of first-class precision equipment to make 'em. The _Keptalpa_ line was out of the old Trampetra Shipyard, sir, and they were well-known at the time for making ships with proprietary parts. Very good shipwrights, the best in the business, once, but they overcharged for the fiddly bits and built 'em to break easy. That stopped when the Emperor had the Shipyard's Director, marketing staff, and Chief of Finance executed, but it was already too late. Retrofitting that many warships with better power systems would have bankrupted a fair section of the Empire, and Nelargo offered the Military a better deal for slightly slower but less finicky craft.”

“Damn,” Tilwass said.

Marzad lifted a conditional finger. “The parts're still being made, just not by Empire-owned factories. There are a lot of ships, civilian ships mostly, with that system still out there, and manufacturers who aren't much concerned about patent infringement. You just can't get them from Galra dealers. Hepplans'll have them every time, sir, and any semi-legitimate port, too.”

Tilwass heaved a sigh. “Lotor's not going to like that.”

Marzad shrugged and leaned on the nearby balcony rail, watching his colleagues below. They were taking a much-needed meal break at the moment, and, as usual, Hokora was with them. “He doesn't have to like it. Disliking it won't change the fact that nearly a quarter of his fleet needs those things to keep running. He's going to have to get more, and that's that.”

Tilwass barked a bitter laugh. “You're a braver man than I am, if you can say that to his face without flinching right now. The lookouts spotted another Ghamparva scout this morning, trying to get into one of the fighter bays. They shot it to pieces and confirmed the kill, but it's made the boss cranky.”

Marzad snorted. “Try saying it to Lady Inzera sometime. When she gets cranky, everybody suffers.”

“Thanks, but I'll pass.” Tilwass turned and leaned his elbows on the rail as well, observing the group below for a moment before making an observation. “The Sergeant's really got her eye on that man there.”

Marzad nodded. “Yessir, and he's happy to have it. She's a good woman, and Dronach had pretty much given up hope that he'd find someone like her. Hopefully, they'll survive long enough to start a family somewhere.”

Tilwass gave him a suspicious look. “Not going to jump ship, are they?”

“Out here? Now? Don't be silly,” Marzad scoffed. “Not with His Imperial Majesty, Lady Inzera, the Ghamparva, the Ghost Fleet, and probably the Hoshinthra after us. She's got rank, however lowly, and he's worth his own weight in platinum to anyone with engine trouble right now. Or wants to know a thing or three about how Ghamparva craft work. Oh, no, they're staying right here, behind several layers of the best blast shielding and top-grade cannon available. Hex or no hex, we can't leave.”

Tilwass knew that to be true; his own situation wasn't all that different from theirs. “Point. Well, who knows? We might get lucky. How about I go and tell the Prince some bad news, then?”

Marzad flicked him a thin smile. “Do that. The sooner we get those parts restocked, the better.”

Tilwass gave him a pat on the shoulder and started making his way back up to what the troops referred to, with some asperity, as “the royal preserves”; _because the Prince has gotten us into a real jam,_ one of the corporals had grumbled sourly, knowing that Tilwass wouldn't tattle on him. Tilwass could only agree with those worried troops, and the men knew it. They followed Lotor because they had to, but the officer they trusted was Tilwass himself, and that went double for the fleet's captains. So thinking, he tapped his comm, opening a private line to one of the _Keptalpa_ -Class ships that had patrolled this quadrant before Lotor had stolen it.

“ _Yes?”_ Captain Dhak of the _Mittrak_ replied, knowing that only one person would be calling on this channel.

“Need to go shopping soon, Dhak,” Tilwass said. “The techs say that we've got only one change of ZAR-6 pulse-equalizer couplers left. Figured you'd know a good place to get more.”

Dhak groaned, and Tilwass felt for the man. His home garrison had been understrength even before Lotor had raided it, and he'd been born on the world that he'd protected. Dhak had really hoped that his own previous commander had been a better swordsman than the Prince, but it hadn't worked out that way. _“I do. We usually got them from Thek-Audha. It's a Hepplan-run Gray Port, and they'll give you a respectable discount if you can bring yourself to ignore their illegal activities.”_

Tilwass grunted dismissively. “Dhak, my own grandfather was a culipash smuggler, and he taught me the trade when I was a cub. Lotor's on the wrong side of his daddy's nonexistent good graces, and we're all in trouble if he doesn't capture an invincible robot that's still worshiped as a god on more planets than I care to name right now. Who are we to object to the odd pirate?”

Dhak puffed a bitter laugh. _“Truth. I'll have my pilot send you the coordinates, and I'll deal with the suppliers myself, if the Prince will let me. They know me well there, and might even knock a bit more off the price if I share a little gossip. Nothing that'll get us into worse trouble, I promise.”_

“It's your turf, Dhak,” Tilwass told him, “you lead the way. I'll give you a heads-up when I've talked the Prince around to the idea.”

“ _Good,”_ Dhak replied darkly. _“Please make sure that he understands that we cannot simply take those supplies at gunpoint, all right? If we want to keep our fleet supplied in the future, we will have to pay actual gac for those goods. Nobody builds information networks like a Hepplan, and while they won't fight if we put on a show of force, they will summon people who will. We have far too many enemies right now.”_

Tilwass nodded grimly. “Got that right, Dhak. He prides himself on his smarts, so I'll lay it out in that direction for him. Signing off.”

“ _Good luck,”_ Dhak said. _“Signing off.”_

Tilwass shook his head unhappily and hurried toward the nearest lift. Lotor was a good kid under all of that pride and had real potential as a strategic planner, but he had no brakes when he was irritated, he let his impulses get the better of him a lot of the time, and his royal upbringing had planted a sense of entitlement into him that was going to take more ability than Tilwass possessed to shift it. It could be that Lotor's scheme might even work, but what then? Turning the Paladins over to Zarkon and Haggar might distract them for maybe five minutes, but it wouldn't be anything like enough to stave off what they had planned for him. It was the Lions that those two wanted so badly, and if Lotor was serious about keeping them...

There was no way that _that_ would end well.

Tilwass was a realist, and had studied every report on Voltron's activities over the past few years that he could find, beg, borrow, or steal. They were hopelessly one-sided, of course, but he could read between the lines better than most, an ability that had damned near landed him in the paranoia-pit that was Military Intelligence, and what he had seen so far worried him. A lot. Things happened around that team. Crazy things, impossible things, unlikely things, bizarre things—hell, there had been that gigantic space monster in the Szaracan Cluster, he still had nightmares about that, and it had only gotten worse as time had gone on. That said _magic_ in Tilwass's mind. Big, big magic, power of the old strength, the kind that the old gods took an interest in, the sort of thing that legends got built on. Magic that most Galra just didn't have anymore. And, of course, one of their allies had a genuine working bone spear, and nobody had been able to make one of those for ages and ages now. It occurred to Tilwass, as he stepped into the lift and keyed it for the command deck, that Lotor was trying to get in the way of something a lot bigger than he would ever be. Tilwass heaved a long sigh and squared his shoulders. General Pendrash himself had put him in this post to keep the boy clear of the worst of it, and he'd do his best. If Lotor wouldn't cooperate, well, so be it. Tilwass had a responsibility to those under his command, and would do whatever he could to spare those good, brave men from what was coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As someone who works in a grocery store and has had a front row seat to how people are dealing with the current mess that certain things have put us all in, I just want to say, stay healthy, stay safe, and find at least one thing every day to smile about, no matter how small. Hopefully Spanch and I can bring at least one of those things. *hugs to all*


	29. Shopping With Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someday I will post a chapter on time. Today is not that day.

Chapter 29: Shopping With Friends

Bantax, the team discovered, had felt moved to dress for the occasion. Nothing on Earth or off of it could hide the fact that the burly Blade was over eight feet tall and hugely muscular, but he could use it to make himself look utterly disreputable. From the strings of glinting beads he'd braided into his hair to the stained tank top and battered jacket, to the dockworker's trousers and heavy, scuffed boots; the necklace of fangs and the _khe'guon_ string hanging prominently from his worn and much-used gun belt, he looked very much a pirate. Pidge in particular appreciated this, since it made her feel right at home in his tidy little lander. It had been a long time since she'd visited the _Quandary,_ she realized, and discovered that she missed her friends.

Hunk and Lance were poking each other and cracking jokes, spouting the occasional “are we there yet, Papa Smurf?” that made Allura frown and Shiro roll his eyes. Coran was sorting out a fistful of currency from the Castle's treasury into eight equal purses, for shopping would surely happen, and Lance and Pidge had made it clear to him that they weren't about to dive for change in fountains again. Zaianne had claimed the right to sit copilot to Bantax, who welcomed a competent partner. Keith had simply glued himself to one of the viewports and was watching the stars with avid eyes. It had been far too long since they'd gone anywhere or done anything purely for their own enjoyment. _Lanteschi,_ he thought, remembering the one marketplace they had visited without actually getting tied up in some sort of drama. Their last visit to Halidex had ended up getting them embroiled in their biggest fight to date, and their discount raid on the grocery store on Arcobi didn't really count in his opinion, since Nasty and Trenosh's grandfather had laid out enough drama at checkout to fuel an opera house for a week. Lanteschi had been nice, but boring, and Thek-Audha sounded like it was geared a little more toward his own interests. Pidge had told him and the others about the dark ports she'd visited during her six-month sojourn on the _Quandary,_ and Keith was willing to admit to being a little envious. Even with the occasional slave market, they had sounded fascinating.

The planet itself, when it came into view, was reassuringly Earthlike. The continents were a different shape, with strings of plateaus and buttes instead of sharp-peaked mountains, but the atmosphere and oceans were the same perfect blue, streaked and dotted with the same sort of weather patterns that Earth had. And almost the same sort of cities, he noticed a few minutes later. They clustered around the waterways in tangled webs of civilization, forming cubist galaxies of light on the night side of the world, and as Bantax brought them down over a particular city, he could recognize whole districts. Factories over there, three airports, one big spaceport, various demographic's worth of residential space, and markets, markets, markets, small and large, scattered everywhere. This was not a place where economic policy was made; this was a place where economics _happened,_ and the starport below was one of the busiest he'd ever seen. All of the big ships clustered around the orbital docking ring in geostationary orbit above it were freighters and massive long-loop trade ships, with their lesser cousins rising and landing from the surface below. All civilian craft, or mostly, anyway—Keith's eyes spotted an elderly Galra warship floating rather self-consciously among the larger merchanters, its huge cargo bays wide open to allow freight landers to enter and exit. He looked away with a mental shrug. Even Imperial craft needed cheap parts and supplies now and again, Keith thought, and that poor old scow was no match for the Lions. _Damn right,_ Red whispered in the back of his mind, and he smiled as Bantax brought them down into Thek-Audha's atmosphere.

A little time later, he and the others stepped out into the bright sunlight and clear, fresh air of a genuine planet; Keith took a deep breath and approved, for all that it smelled of shuttle exhaust and busy people here at the spaceport's docks. Bantax stepped out, Zaianne at his side, motioning to him and the others to get their attention.

“The Council's waiting for us in one of the warehouses,” he rumbled quietly, pointing at a row of large buildings to the west of them. “They want to keep this as quick and quiet as possible. Yantilee has already spoken with them, and all they really want to do is confirm what they were told.”

Allura nodded. “We can certainly oblige them.”

Lance grinned. “And then it's shop-'til-you-drop. Wow, have I been looking forward to that!”

Bantax gave him a thin smile. “Indeed. I will return to the lander after I have completed my own errands and will stay there until you come back, just in case of emergencies. This is not yet an entirely safe port for us, after all.”

“Wise,” Shiro said approvingly. “Well, let's go and see if we can make it a little safer.”

Lotor scowled darkly at the object in Tilwass's hand. “Absolutely not.”

“Prince, just this once, please don't argue with me,” Tilwass said wearily. “It's not a safe place for you right now, and your hair and face are too damned distinctive. You can carry the sword, that's just fine, and even wear armor if you like, but at least make some effort at concealment. You're a Prince. The Crown Prince. Now you're a wanted man. Your image has been plastered all over the media since the day your Imperial daddy confirmed your rank. If you want to keep that pretty face and those flowing locks where they belong, you're going to have to cover 'em up. This would be easier if blue Namturans were more common, but they ain't, especially not out here. Put on the hat and the scarf, sir. I know, it's a stupid-looking hat, but if everyone's staring at it and not at the rest of you, then it's all for the best.”

Lotor took the hat from his lieutenant with a grimace of distaste. It had been hand-knitted from some sort of coarse animal-fiber yarn in impossibly garish shades of red, yellow, and orange, possessed earflaps that tied under the chin, and... ye gods... had a fluffy pom-pom made from the leftover yarn attached to the top. It clashed violently with absolutely everything and was utterly unsuitable for a proud royal. Feeling vaguely insulted, he wound up his long silver hair and crammed the woolen atrocity down over it. Tilwass, bless him, was man enough not to laugh or even to smile, although Lotor's sensitive ears picked up a few stifled snickers from the soldiers in the room.

“Where did you get this thing?” he asked irritably, yanking on the earflaps to settle the hat into place.

“My aunt made it for me, sir, just before I was shipped off to boot camp,” Tilwass said solemnly, handing him the light silk scarf that would serve as a mask. “She's a good woman, but I'll be the first to admit that she's not afraid of bright colors. I'll want it back when you're done, so no trading it to the Torlunes for a new brush-and-comb set, all right? Captain Dhak'll contact us when the parts are all stowed away, which'll take an hour or three. It's busy out there today, and the supplier only has so many freight drones.”

“Good enough,” Lotor sighed, winding the scarf loosely around his neck and feeling utterly ridiculous.

Ridiculous, yes, but he was willing to put up for it for the sake of some exercise. He had spent most of his life on ships and space stations, and trips down to real planets had always been a great treat for him. Only very rarely had he ever been able to walk incognito through an open-air marketplace, and it was not something that he would willingly pass up even now. Tilwass would be going with him, and was already dressed in a freelance courier pilot's jumpsuit, looking remarkably anonymous without his badges of rank. There was something indelibly plebeian about the man, and Lotor found himself envying him for it.

“All right then,” he said, scratching an itch under the abominable hat. “If we are ready, then let us go.”

Tilwass nodded. “Yessir. Lander's all ready for us, and we've got a slot reserved for it in the Port's short-stay lot. Dhak says it's within easy walking distance of the yellow-flag market, which is mostly legal with a fair salting of shady dealers, thirty percent chance of Unilu, and a five-minute trot away from the orange-flag market's famous Alley of Four Hundred Forbidden Delights, if the notion takes you that way and you don't mind making it quick.”

Lotor puffed a laugh and adjusted the ghastly hat again. “It has been some time, but no. All I want is a little fresh air and exercise, and perhaps to pick up a few things that I've done without for longer than I like.”

A look of relief flicked across Tilwass's face and was gone. “Good enough, sir. Looks like a nice day for a walk down there, too.”

“Then let us make the most of it,” Lotor said, and strode into the lander, ready for a pleasant outing.

Shiro was aware that he had come rather late to this stage of affairs; the year that he had lost in the Mindscape had forced him to miss out on a great deal of diplomatic work between not only the Ghost Fleet and the Coalition worlds, but between them, the Blade of Marmora, and his own team. Even before his abrupt disappearance, he'd been happy enough to leave that duty to Allura, and was doubly so now. She thrived on it, and was better at it than he was. All the same, he was becoming rather fond of the odd, six-armed, stripy, and rather reptilian Hepplans. They had an almost Elikonian disdain for unnecessary quibbling and kept their focus firmly on the facts, an attitude that he had seen only very rarely in his superiors back on Earth.

“I am sorry that it has been taking so long,” Allura was saying apologetically, “but there is only one Voltron, and far too many enslaved worlds. I will say that we have been choosing our targets with great care, and every world we have freed thus far has strengthened the rest, making them better able to work toward freedom for the ones that we, as yet, cannot reach. Every warship that we destroy is one that is not shooting at you.”

The Chairman, a burly, black-streaked Hepplan, rattled blunt nails on an ordinance crate. “Truth. And that little arrangement you've made to bring in the Hoshinthra hasn't hurt the cause any. Scared the pants off of a lot of folks, but that's no nevermind. It's not us that they're eating, at least not right now. That might change later, eh, you unvarnished hell-beast?”

That last had been addressed to a massive shape made visible only by the glowing _ksshass-spak-nilza_ dotting its flanks, and long teeth glimmered in the dusty air of the warehouse in a ghostly grin. _“All things change, given sufficient time,”_ the Hoshinthra Warrior hissed with ominous cheer.

The other Bosses shifted nervously, but the Chairman merely narrowed his eyes at the big predator, demonstrating just why he held the rank that he did. “Yeah, they do, but for now we can work together. You talk a good line, Princess, and Yantilee was right about you. Bantax, you can tell your grouchy-faced boss that he's got a deal. Even if it's not this little group that cracks us loose, they'll get credit regardless—arranging things so that we can do it ourselves might be even better. We're a proud lot, despite everything.”

Bantax nodded gravely. “I understand, and thank you.”

“No, we thank _you,”_ the Chairman said, and glared at the Hoshinthra again. “And I'll thank you even more if you get that mad haunt out of here before it frightens the workers into fits. Its momma sent it down here to hammer out a similar agreement with us—that got done a few hours ago, no trouble there, but it won't leave, and that's messing with the schedule.”

Pidge grinned evilly, and her hand shot out as quickly as a striking snake's to grab the Hoshinthra's nasal bone; Shiro had to fight down a smile at the Warrior's startled squawk, and the other Bosses stared in amazement as she hauled its dreadful head down to her level. “We can do that,” she said, shaking the fanged skull back and forth. “We want to do some shopping, and we'll need a pack mule. Where's the best place to look for robot hardware, sir? I've got a Baba-Yaga house to build, and I'm out of the right parts.”

The Chairman vented a humorous gurgle, and smiled at the Hoshinthra's startled expression. “Yellow-flag market's your best bet for just about anything. A lot of common products, some rare and semi-legal stuff, with a decent chance of back-alley gambling, pickpockets, smuggled stuff, and street theater. It's right out the front door there, and there are street maps on every corner. Stay out of the orange, red, or green-flag markets unless you're interested in live cargo, illicit chemicals, stolen ordinance, or... heh... personal services, and don't go near the black-flagged areas unless you aren't afraid to kill to keep what you've got already. Mind you, even those spots wouldn't give you trouble if you've got that Warrior with you.”

Keith rolled his eyes. “Let me guess; it's paid them a visit already?”

“No,” the Chairman said with another uneasy glare at the distracted Doom Moose. “At least, not that I know of, but their great-granny's been well-known in this Sector for hundreds of years, and is rightfully feared. Even the worst sort of criminals know to avoid her lot, but with your armor off, they wouldn't know you from a blinth farmer.”

“Gotcha,” Hunk said, patting the Hoshinthra on the rump. “Just as well, really, being high-profile is a pain. Okay, Dasher, I hope you brought your veils 'cause I don't want to cause a panic out there. Have a nice day, guys.”

“It's nicer now than it was this morning,” the Chairman said, waving them politely away. “Go have fun. We've all got a bunch of work to do.”

Thek-Audha's yellow-flag market was everything that they could have hoped for. High-walled buildings with tile-mosaic facades lined broad, paved roads, bright yellow banners striping them with a hundred shades of gold, and yellow pennants fluttered from every post and pole. The buildings themselves belonged to the wealthier merchants, who set up bright pavilions full of high-end goods in secluded courtyards, but most of the action clustered around the incredible variety of sidewalk booths and pushcarts. Hundreds of peoples walked, talked, and did business here, and the air was rich with alien spices that lingered sweet, sour, sharp, and fragrant in the warm air. Confidence tricksters lurked in alleys, bands of wild-looking children scampered in and among the crowds as nimbly as goats, street musicians sent tangles of melody into the air to mingle with the subdued roar of conversation, and the occasional pickpocket and cutpurse watched with sly eyes for easy marks among the throng. Every so often the team would catch a glimpse of a dark shadow flitting over the rooftops, keeping pace with them easily; there were rooftop markets as well, for those who preferred heights, and Zaianne looked to be having a good time up there.

They had needed this, Shiro mused, drawing the aromatic air deeply into his lungs and letting it out again. Even he had needed it, for all that crowds made him a little nervous these days. He had always been a private person and slightly introverted, and Adam had loved coaxing him out of his shell on their days off, taking him mall-crawling and sightseeing during their days together, and to dance clubs in the evenings. Adam's natural habitat had been light and music and action, and Shiro had found that deeply attractive. Most of his own time had been bound up in study and in training, down-to-earth routines that had opened up like flowers at Adam's touch to reveal the stars.

Adam's death had slammed them closed again, and he had lost his taste for Adam's beloved public venues; the bloodthirsty mobs that had thronged the Imperial Arena where he'd been held captive and forced to fight day after day for a solid year had cemented his aversion. Howling for his blood, howling for death, eyes—all those staring eyes—full of the ancient savagery that the smell of violence seemed to bring out in every sentient being. Shiro shuddered and shook off the memory before it could dig its claws into his nerves any more deeply, and breathed in the sweet aromas of a perfumist's booth to drown out the raw, ugly reek of the arena that had permeated his mind. He smelled it every time that those memories came crawling back: a filthy mixture of terror and blood and pain, along with sweat and excrement and whatever other secretions a frightened or infuriated alien might produce in the heat of battle. It got right into the walls, the sand that floored the ring, his clothes, his hair, his skin--

“Hey, Shiro, check it out!”

Shiro blinked, coming out of the shadows in his mind with a jerk as Lance, grinning broadly, flopped a huge, vividly-colored and wildly-embellished hat onto his head. “Space sombreros, Shiro,” Lance said, sporting an equally extravagant example in gold and blue. “Seriously, we are a frillion miles away from Earth, and yet somewhere out here is Space Sort-Of-Mexico. Isn't that too cool? It's too cool. Hey, Pidge, see if you can get Dasher to wear one!”

Shiro puffed a faint, relieved laugh and handed the hat back to the amused merchant. “I thought that Cubans didn't wear sombreros.”

Lance grinned back. “Most of us don't, but a lot of other people think we do. It's a dumb stereotype, but my mom's cousin Celine used to make these really great handmade dolls with miniature sombreros for the tourist trade, and she made a really good thing out of it. I've got a few of her best ones back home, and I've always liked the hats. Oh, yeah, Pidge! Totally that one!”

The Hoshinthra was still with them and fully-veiled, looking no stranger than many of the passers-by in the crowds, although it had been an experience to watch it produce its garment. Its glowing insectoid symbiotes had a little bit of arachnid in them, apparently, and they had spun those pearl-gray silks up in seconds. The Warrior had accepted its fate with grace—for the moment, anyway—and seemed content to follow along after them as tamely as any donkey. Probably more out of curiosity than anything else; Shiro was very aware that strange and dramatic things tended to happen around him and his little group. Hopefully, space sombreros would be the worst of it.

“Getting a little nervy there, Shiro,” Keith said quietly.

Shiro tried to relax. “I don't like crowds.”

Keith's hand patted his shoulder. “I don't much, either. This one's okay, though—they're not paying any attention to us.”

That was true. Lance had managed to fit the Hoshinthra with a bright pink hat that didn't suit it at all, and was taking selfies with it. In the meantime, Allura, Coran, and Pidge had drifted off in the direction of a group of personal-care and beauty-products booths, and Hunk was poking around interestedly in one that was selling small household appliances. Shiro shook his head to clear it and took a long, calming breath, casting his eyes around at the crowd. No enemies, for all that there were Galra among the other peoples here, but they were clearly either residents of the city or simply here on business. Nobody was paying them any attention at all. Well, except for a sly-looking Unilu, but he scuttled off when Shiro leveled a glare at him. He and Keith watched as Lance haggled down the price for his gold-embroidered blue sombrero, and then went to rejoin the others. Allura had already found herself a Tithracian silk blouse in the very palest peach color, and was now studying a cosmetics display with avid eyes. Coran was peering at the selection of facial-hair products and tools, and Pidge looked bored.

“I don't get it,” Pidge was saying, “I never really got into the whole cosmetics thing at home. The closest I've ever come was at day camp once, when they held a face-painting class. Matt and I painted ourselves up to look like monsters, and I think we nearly gave one of the counselors a heart attack.”

Allura giggled, but didn't take her eyes off of the mascaras. “That's one use for it, and many other peoples use face paint for exactly that purpose! But you've never had a makeover?”

Pidge snorted derisively. “No. Heck, I stopped wearing even nail polish in fifth grade, when I started really getting into electronics. Nothing chips paint like a screwdriver, and the stuff doesn't play well with electricity, anyway.”

The vendor, a lightly-built, vaguely antelope-like fellow who had been hovering hopefully nearby, brightened up instantly and indicated a display of small, colorful bottles. “Aha! Surely Madame has never encountered the Elegant Electrician line of enamels? Specifically formulated for the Mechanic-Priestesses of Eplendir Thrassa, they strengthen, protect, and insulate nails, claws, hooves, and horns from damage and electric discharges of up to sixteen hundred kilograpps. Simply place your manipulative member in this device, Madame, and we may see which grade and formula is compatible with your body chemistry.”

“Oh, cool!” Lance said eagerly, shoving his hand into the proffered device before Pidge could. “How about skin and hair products? The stuff we've got is okay, but I always wind up feeling oily, and my hair's a mess every morning.”

The vendor didn't so much as bat an eyelash at this interruption and worked the controls with practiced ease. “A perennial problem for semi-hairless mammaloids, Sir... yes, yes... ooh, tricky. A very unusual skin type, very unusual, but I think we may have just the thing for you. Tralla, see to these ladies, if you would, for I have found a challenge!”

Shiro and Keith couldn't help but smile to see Allura coaxing Pidge into allowing the cosmetician to apply a few free samples, and Lance and the vendor disputing over the skin creams and shampoos. Hunk sidled up next to them a minute later and nudged Shiro gently in the ribs with one elbow. “Keeping your distance, huh? Good idea. Lance is dangerous when it comes to this stuff.”

“No kidding,” Keith said.

“None,” Hunk replied flatly. “He's super picky about his product, and the hair-and-skin specialists at the mall back home used to hide behind the perfume counters when he showed up. I think he got it from his sister Marcia, who used to use him as a practice dummy. She was determined to be the world's best cosmetologist, and had to start somewhere. Hey, check it out! Pidge looks really cute with that eyeshadow.”

The Hoshinthra, who had been left standing nearby, snorted and stamped a derisive hoof. _“This person does not see the point of personal embellishment,”_ it hissed softly.

“Yeah, it's not something you guys do, is it?” Hunk said, patting the big alien on the flank. “It's super important for a lot of other people, though. I could go on for hours about makeup and clothes and jewelry, but I won't, 'cause I really want to check out that parts merchant with Pidge once she's done there. They've got some really neat-looking gearing arrays that'll really make her happy. Oop! Nice try, dude.”

That last had been addressed to the Unilu pickpocket that had just tried to relieve Hunk of his money, and whose lower-right hand was now caught in Hunk's iron grip. The thief squawked indignantly and pulled a knife, which Keith promptly took away from him, and when he tried for a kick, Shiro neatly grabbed the ankle and lifted, pulling the Unilu completely off of his feet. The thief scrabbled at their hands with his other three, flailing angrily with the loose leg, but went very still when the Hoshinthra extended one arm and showed him its fighting claws. There were six, and each one of them was more than equal to his lost dagger.

“So, what do you think?” Hunk asked, bouncing the thief up and down gently.

Shiro shook his head. “Not the best.”

Keith examined the knife critically. “Amateur. He's let his knife get rusty.”

“ _It has been eating junk food,”_ the Hoshinthra hissed. _“Most unpalatable.”_

The Unilu stared at them. “You're  _grading_ me?”

Hunk dropped him with a thump onto the pavement, although Shiro kept a firm grip on his leg. “Yup. And on a scale of one to five, you come in at a solid 'meh'. Keep your distance until you've improved, all right? And tell your buddies to stay clear, too. We don't want trouble, but Dasher here might get peckish. I don't know if he's ever had Unilu--”

“ _Sweet-sour, chewy, and full of vitamins,”_ the Hoshinthra interjected with menacing relish.

“--but I'm not cleaning up the mess if he wants a hamburglar.” Hunk finished without missing a beat. “Or doing the paperwork. Got that?”

The Unilu gave him a blank look, but the proximity of the Hoshinthra's razor-edged, sickle-shaped claws to his eyes convinced him not to argue. “Got it.”

“Good. Drop him, Shiro.”

Shiro obligingly let go of the thief's ankle, and watched the goblinish alien scramble away. Keith flipped the rusty knife in one hand a few times, and cast an exasperated look at Hunk. “Hamburglar? Seriously?”

Hunk made a face. “Keith, I used to have nightmares about that guy. Yeah, I was four years old at the time, but even then I knew the difference between greaseburgers and my Dad's Burger of the Gods. Nobody steals my burgers, Keith.”

Shiro chuckled. “I'm not used to you being the mean one, Hunk.”

Hunk shrugged. “I don't like sloppy work, and he was being really sloppy. Dad would have bawled him out in two different languages, Mom would have smacked his knuckles with a spoon, and Grandma... well, let's just say that he was lucky that it was me and not her. Besides, am I wrong about Dasher, here?”

“ _No,”_ the Warrior said flatly. _“This person has perceived 'hamburger' and the related 'cheeseburger' through one's cousins on Earth. Theft of such is to be discouraged.”_

Keith stared at the Hoshinthra, scowled, and rammed the dagger point-first into a nearby bulletin board. “Hunk, he's got a point. Where's mine?”

Hunk smiled slyly. “That depends. We're out of burger meat, man. You can wait until we can get more atinbuk from the envirodeck, or I can make up some of that space-tofu meat substitute that you made faces at the last time I made tacos.”

Keith glared darkly at him, then poked him lightly in the chest. “Evil.”

“Only a little,” Hunk replied, pushing his hand gently away. “It's going to be a few more days anyway before that wheel of cheddar is ready to go, and I've already promised Shiro some macaroni. Personally, I—uh-oh.”

A sudden shout from Lance made Keith and Shiro turn around curiously. He and a tall, slender person in an unusual hat were battling each other for possession of a bottle of something pearl-white. “I saw it first, Mac,” Lance was saying angrily, making a grab for the bottle. “It's mine! Have you any idea of how hard it is to find a really good shampoo for my hair type? We've been out of the good stuff for weeks!”

“Ample,” the other man, a Galra to judge by the clawed hand clutching at the bottle, said irritably. “This product is perfect for me, and it's nearly impossible to get outside of the Core worlds. Now back off before I flatten you.”

“Just try it, pal!” Lance retorted. “No one's allowed to have better hair than me! I've fought worse than you, anyway. I'll bet that you're nothing compared to a Black Friday mob at Mega-Mart.”

Hunk groaned. “Here we go. We'd better break that up, guys. Lance once got himself thrown out of a department store for this sort of thing.”

Fortunately, the vendor was an old hand at this, and was quick to defuse the situation before they could come to blows. “Gentlemen, that's quite enough! I have a whole crate of that particular product right here under the table! All you had to do was ask.”

Both of them muttered apologies and shot dirty looks at each other while purchasing several bottles each, and the tall fellow stalked stiffly away, tugging irritably at his rather awkward-looking hat. He was joined at the corner by another Galra, a graying, exasperated-looking fellow in courier gear who motioned him down a side street, and they vanished from view a few seconds later.

“Creep,” Lance grouched, rejoining the group with his precious purchases held close. “Galra are way too pushy. And where did he get that hat? He must be colorblind or something—purple and orange colors can look good together, but not that purple, and not those oranges. Total fashion fail, and what was with the scarf?”

“Maybe he's got allergies,” Hunk said with a shrug, “and it was a pretty cool hat, in my opinion. I didn't even know that you could get a Jayne hat all the way out here. Either way, the joke's on him. It's hot out here and getting hotter, if you hadn't noticed, and he's going to be miserable if he has to be out in it too much longer.”

Lance snickered. “True, that. Anyway, how are the ladies doing? I was kind of busy.”

Keith shrugged. “We haven't been paying attention. There was an Unilu just now, who... Uh. Whoa.”

Pidge and Allura had spent a very enjoyable time with the cosmetician and her drone assistants, and were approaching the group with Coran at their side, clutching neat little bags of this and that. While the makeup they were wearing was not immediately obvious, the overall effect was stunning. Skin had been smoothed and polished to a satin glow, touches of color played up lips and brightened eyes, thickened lashes and shaped brows, subtle shades and hues accentuated the sweet curves of cheekbone and chin, and a soft dusting of something mildly magical had lent a subtle glitter to their hair. Fingernails had been painted in intricate patterns, and they sparkled like gems in the afternoon sunlight with every gesture. The two young beauties were laughing together over some mysterious female topic, and the very air around them seemed to shine.

All four men gulped and stared, dumbstruck in masculine stupefaction. “Holy crow,” Lance said in a reverent whisper. “Pidge looks like a  _girl.”_

That wasn't quite the right thing to say, but the others could only nod in agreement.

“All right, we're done with that booth, at least,” Allura said, shimmering. “That was lovely! We must come here again sometime. Coran, did you find anything for yourself?”

Coran smiled broadly and rattled his own shopping bag happily. “Indeed I did, Princess. They still make jantanur mustache wax, if you can believe it, and a number of more modern related products that would have had Altea's cosmetics industry in an uproar! I've also found a rather dashing jabot that will go beautifully with my best formal suit, and a few other little things. You look ravishing, my dear, and so do you, young lady.”

“Why, thank you, Coran,” Pidge said, preening a little, having not attracted this sort of attention since before her brother and father had vanished away that first time. She then turned amber eyes made glorious upon their astonished audience and batted her eyelashes at them. Since those lashes had been brushed with something that gave them an iridescence not unlike that of a green-banded swallowtail butterfly, the effect was devastating. “Can we check out the robot-parts booths now?” she asked sweetly.

“Keep the hat _on,_ sir, seriously,” Tilwass growled, glancing warily at the people around them. “Dhak just sent me the latest news reports, and guess whose full description is right there at the top of the list on the _Bounty Hunters Weekly_ pages? You've got no real idea of how rare hair that long on a man is, do you?”

“Stop fretting, Tilwass,” Lotor said irritably and took a sip from the cup of chilled juice he'd bought from a street vendor. “No one is paying any attention to us.”

“They will if they see that hat come off. It's a big bounty, and we can't count on the patrols to help us if someone tries to claim it.” Tilwass passed him one of the fried-meat skewers that had smelled too good for even the nervous lieutenant to pass up. “I've seen enough Namturans wandering around so that you could risk pulling down the scarf a bit, but don't push it. You're still blue, and there can't be more than three or four other people with your coloration in this entire Sector.”

Lotor grunted sourly, but couldn't refute it. Even in the Core Worlds, his coloration was rare, and he recalled that the gossip screeds had made much of it whenever he had done something noteworthy. Frowning, he bit into the admittedly tasty snack and mentally cursed the Simadhi for their disinclination to leave their cavern-riddled planet, much less mingle with the other Galran peoples. “How far along is he with the restocking?”

“Getting close to done, but they've hit a snag,” Tilwass said, biting off a chunk of meat from his skewer. “One of the freight shuttles—not ours, it belongs to the supplier—blew a thruster halfway up, and drifted off into one of the commercial lanes. They're getting it sorted out, but it nearly caused a wreck, and you know how long it takes for civilian mechanics to do anything. Should be another hour or two.”

Lotor rolled his eyes heavenward in a silent plea for patience. The hat was hot and scratchy, and sweat was trickling unpleasantly down his scalp as the day's heat increased. Even the light silk scarf trapped his breath and made his head into a sauna. He had pulled on gloves as well before leaving the lander, to hide the color of his hands, and was starting to regret it. For the first time in his life, he regretted not taking after his father; a Golrazi wouldn't even notice the heat. Namtura, alas, was a cooler world.

“Doesn't mean we can't go back to the ship early,” Tilwass said hopefully. “I've found the little things I needed already. You?”

Lotor glanced down at the bag of hair-care products he'd bought. An indulgence, but the military-standard 'freshers aboard his ships had been designed for Kedrekans and always left him feeling dry and itchy. The one in his personal quarters was better, but nothing beat a real bath. There were a few other things that he'd been doing without as well, and some of the booths in the marketplace looked very tempting.

“I would like to stay a little longer,” Lotor said, indicating a particular booth. “It has been a very long time since I have had the luxury of shopping. Calm down, Tilwass, I very much doubt that we will find more trouble than we can handle here.”

Tilwass's heart sank at those words. While Galra had no knowledge of the Earthian “Murphy's Law”, nor were they cognizant of the dangers of Invoking The Pastry Gods, the old soldier was well aware that the Fates were drawn to statements of this nature like draug-beetles to fresh roadkill. Like many of his kind, he served under a man who had no faith in such primitive superstitions, and made a sign to avert misfortune behind his back where the Prince couldn't see it.

“Maybe, sir,” he said glumly. “Still, let's not take too many chances, eh? We could be surrounded by the enemy, but they can't hit what they don't see.”

Lotor sighed and finished his snack. “Relax, I said. I consider your worries unlikely at best. Even if the Paladins themselves were to visit these markets, wouldn't they head for the rougher areas first? They have already shown a marked predilection for associating with criminals and terrorists. At least the Hepplans have such districts clearly marked, so they should stay out of our way... assuming they would bother with this dusty little backwater planet.”

Tilwass glowered at him, but accepted his fate; indeed, he could hear it laughing at him. “As you say, sir.”

It was just as well that Coran had sorted out a very generous allowance for all of them, Shiro thought a little while later. They had found a group of hardware, tools, and spare-parts booths, and Hunk and Pidge had pretty much gone wild. Just around a corner, though, were a line of clothing, crafting, art, and jewelry stalls that were delighting Allura, Coran, and Lance, so that was all right. Keith was starting to look bored, however, and Shiro was starting to think long thoughts about wandering off himself. He could only assume that the Hoshinthra felt the same right now; Pidge hadn't been joking about using their veiled companion as a pack mule, and its back was already festooned with shopping bags.

“Do I need to tell her to carry her own things?” he asked it, watching as his diminutive teammate haggled a dealer five times her size into a corner.

The Hoshinthra's antennae flicked dismissively. _“It is a lesson, and we are learning. The weight is as nothing.”_

Shiro cast the big alien an interested glance. “Well, your kind have been fairly isolated for a long time now. Every learning experience is important, isn't it?”

“ _All experiences are important,”_ the Warrior hissed thoughtfully. _“The Mystics have decreed that a time of great learning is beginning, and all Classes must take heed. Even now, at the very leading edge of that era, a feast of knowledge presents itself. This person is fortunate to attend that feast.”_

Keith smirked. “Even if it means carrying Pidge's stuff?”

“ _It is interesting stuff,”_ the Warrior replied, and then turned its head when Hunk came trotting up with another couple of bags full of goodies.

“Hey, guys, we have got to come back here again sometime,” Hunk said happily, looping the handles together and slinging them over the Hoshinthra's back. “You wouldn't believe how many different types of motors and controllers they've got, and the gearing and piston arrays have to be seen to be believed! I think that Pidge is about to achieve mad scientist nirvana over there, just as soon as she can get the vendor to drop the price a little more. She's gonna be up all night redesigning the Baba Yaga. Where are Lance and Allura?”

Shiro pointed away down a side street. “Over there. Clothes shopping, I think.”

Hunk turned and peered at the two distant figures, who were holding various garments up to each other and discussing something with great animation. “Yeah, looks like it. Yup, and there's Coran with them, egging them both on. Well, she hasn't updated her wardrobe in ten thousand years and Lance is having a lot of fun, so that's all right. Tell you what, Shiro, Pidge and I are going to be at this for a while, and so are they. You and Keith look bored. Go and look at stuff that you like, okay?”

Shiro gave him a surprised look. “I'm not sure that splitting up is a good idea.”

Hunk rolled his eyes. “Shiro,  _relax._ We're fine. We've all got communicators, we've all got our bayards, we've got magic tricks, we've got Keith's ninja mom up on that roof over there, and we've got Dasher right here. If something goes wrong, it'll be us causing most of the damage. Go and have some fun, why don't you? You haven't really had any alone time with Keith since we brought you back from the dead, anyway. Get going, quick, before Pidge starts loading you two down with robot parts, too.”

Shiro might have protested further, if only out of a sense of responsibility, but Keith laid hold of his arm and pulled him away down a side street before he could speak. “We'll meet up by that big fountain, okay?” Keith called back, receiving a thumbs-up in return. “Come on, Shiro, you're allowed to have fun, too. Hey, check out that armory!”

Smiling at the sight of Keith looking like a kid in a candy store, Shiro allowed himself to be led away.

“What do you think?” Allura asked, holding up a glimmering gown against her body for Lance's opinion. “Too revealing?”

Lance bent his discerning gaze upon the dress with a considering frown. It was a lovely confection in pearlescent silk, sewn with tiny, glinting, prismatic beads along the plunging neckline and hems, but there were a few things that didn't seem right to him. “Too many ruffles,” he opined. “You're not a little girl anymore, and Grandma always said that ruffles on a grown woman were either wishful thinking or a booby-trap. This one's a booby-trap. See how the bodice is unsupported in the center, and that the decolletage would go right down to your navel? Also, this is chundretta silk, and it goes transparent in certain lights. It would look great on you, but only if you took up a side job as a seductress.”

Allura hung the dress back up on the rack with a faintly disappointed sigh and squinted at one fall of glimmering fabric; alas, he was correct about the silk. She could practically hear her mother's disapproving sniff, and recalled that great lady as having referred to such garments as “gift wrap”. Part of her wanted to wear it anyway, just to see how her teammates would react. “I don't suppose that you could do better,” she said.

“I'm already working on it,” Lance said with a mysterious smile. “It's only in the planning phase right now, but there's something in it for everybody. I just haven't had much time or energy lately to make much progress. Things keep getting in the way.”

Allura sobered, reflecting on the recent grim events and the exhausting work that they'd been doing for the past few weeks. “They do, don't they? I would complain, but we cannot stand by while such things are happening. Father never did, I know that.”

“He sounds like a hard act to follow,” Lance said sympathetically, sorting through the racks for something a little more suitable. “I mean, being a princess and potentially a queen or a grand duchess or something is a big job to fill all by itself. Tack on 'space hero' to all of that, and you're just asking for a job-related nervous breakdown.”

Allura nodded, pulling out a rather beautiful dress made up mostly of lavender lace. “Father relied very heavily on Mother to run the Kingdom much of the time, particularly toward the end. I tried to help as much as I could, and the Ministerial Council did their best, but they always grumbled when Voltron had to go out and put out another fire. At least...”

Her voice wobbled and broke, and Lance wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulders. “At least you don't have to deal with politics on top of everything else,” he said gently. “I'll tell you, I'm glad to have the Fleet around to take care of most of that for us.”

Allura swallowed hard and regained her composure with an effort, although she did not leave his embrace. “Yes,” she admitted, leaning her head against his shoulder for the comfort that brought her. “What did your family do, Lance? Professionally, I mean.”

He shrugged. “Everything. Big family, remember? Everything from running a hot-dog stand, to religious work, to bootlegging, to exotic dancing, to high-level criminal court cases. That last one's my second cousin Javier—he's a prosecuting attorney, and a good one. Uncle Diego says that he's a swarm of piranhas in a thousand-dollar suit, and has the soul of a flying monkey.”

Allura giggled. “Does he?”

“Sure. He keeps it in a bottle on his dresser.” Lance grinned. “Cousin Javier once told me and the rest of us kids that he kept the souls of a hundred monsters there, and used them as cologne whenever he had a really big case come up. He didn't really, he just liked collecting manly scents, but I can't walk past a perfume counter anymore without thinking 'Eau de Godzilla'.”

She couldn't help but to laugh. Out of curiosity, she had watched a few of those films, gleaned from Lizenne's Internet snapshot, and Shiro had explained the circumstances surrounding the creation of the original, iconic movie. She could see how a senior legist, already a figure of fear, might intimidate his rivals by striding in while smelling of radioactive, fire-breathing, sea-born giant reptile. That, of course, had led her into studying the various cultures of Earth a little bit, and she privately suspected that there were vast, untapped oceans of silliness lurking within Shiro's rigid-mannered Japanese countrymen.

“Growing up among such a varied household must have been interesting,” she remarked, pulling out another gown, this one in a deep, rich, rose-colored plush. “You must miss them terribly.”

“No less than you do,” Lance said, bringing her up short.

Seeing her surprise, he shrugged and looked away. “Coran's been telling stories about them ever since we arrived. You don't talk about your folks much, but you miss them. I can tell. Take it from me, I know what you're going through.”

“Do you?” she said neutrally, although he could feel her insult and envy through the Lion-bond; his relatives, however far away, were still alive.

He sighed. “Yeah. Allura... they're fine, and with Dasher's cousins keeping an eye on Earth, they'll probably stay fine. It's us that I'm worried about. That last Robeast was really, really bad, the Ghamparva are really, really bad, Zarkon is literally the king of bad, and Haggar's even worse. We've got a lot going for us, but there aren't any guarantees. I may never see my folks again.”

Neither might any of them, he did not say, nor did he need to. Whole worlds had defied the Emperor and had died for it, one after the other for ten thousand years. “Perhaps it is better this way,” she murmured softly, turning her gaze back to a rack of dresses that she no longer had any interest in. “Better to have one's loved ones far away and hidden, where our enemies cannot find them.”

“Not all of them,” Lance said, wrapping his arm around her waist and giving her a squeeze. “If we did that, nobody would be around to fly the Lions.”

This time, when she met his eyes, all she could think was that they were so very warm, and so very, very blue.

When Coran found them cuddling amidst the corsetry a little time later, he turned back to his own pursuits with a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to apologize for the fact that the chapters have been so late. If you've read the author's notes before, you know that I work as a grocery clerk, and right now, things are crazy and tense and lowkey terrifying at work. This puts a massive drain on both my physical and mental health, so my routine for the last few weeks has mostly been work, stare blankly out a window, eat, sleep. Spanch has been absolutely the most amazing person in keeping me from completely crashing, but getting me to post anything involves constant reminders and the application of post-it notes, cake, and possibly road flares. Either way, until things involving the Covid-19 situation smooth out, chapters are likely to be late and sporadic.
> 
> Everyone stay safe, be as comfy and healthy as you can, and thanks for your love and patience with me.


	30. Quality Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have come to the conclusion that pandemics are like holiday season, only a lot longer, three times as stressful, and with none of the cheer. BUT! I have a chapter! I hope everyone enjoys and is staying safe and healthy!

Chapter 30: Quality Time

Pidge had finally run out of money. It had taken some doing, due to the haggling skills that Nasty had drummed into her as well as her native genius, but she was finally down to no more than fifteen gac. Still and all, she had made out like a bandit, and she not only had enough parts and tools to finish the Baba Yaga, but to make a good start on the Mark II. They would deal permanently with Zarkon and Haggar sooner or later, she reasoned, and there was nothing wrong with starting a sideline in mobile homes once all the fuss had died down. She could even diversify into houseboats, if she built in pontoons and gave it duck feet instead of chicken feet, and if she adapted the design to something more on the lines of a big cat or a mountain goat, that could allow for more living space and the option of roaming the plains and peaks...

Entertaining visions of seeing whole neighborhoods roaming the Serengeti, Pidge trotted back to Hunk and the Hoshinthra with her last bag of machine parts. And a big shopping cart, she discovered a few minutes later. Hunk had decided to rent one of the big hover-carts available at the stalls scattered around the marketplace, and was currently loading their bags into it.

“Dasher was starting to look overloaded,” Hunk said by way of explanation, taking her bag and plopping it in on top of all the rest. “He said he was okay, but if something happens and he needs to be somewhere else in a hurry, I'm not carrying all of that by myself. Had fun?”

“Oh, heck yeah,” Pidge said with a huge smile. “We have got to come back later. These guys have everything, and we've only barely scratched the surface! Huh. Where is everybody?”

Hunk waved a hand at the bustling marketplace. “Lance, Allura, and Coran took off thataway to check out some new clothes, and I sent Keith and Shiro off to have some bro time. Zaianne's... well, she was up on that roof over there, but now she's not. It's just us and Dasher right now. We could sightsee, I guess.”

Pidge cocked him an arch look. “You're out of money too, huh?”

Hunk grinned and patted a bag, which went _clonk._ “Yup. I've got about enough left to buy some snacks and drinks at that booth over there, but that's it, and we'll all meet up at that big fountain down the street in a little while. So... spend some quality time with me?”

He held out a hand, and she took it; it had been a long time since she had just window-shopped. “'Bro time'?” she asked.

“Oh, all right, more like 'bromance time', hopefully,” Hunk admitted, giving the shopping cart a nudge to get it moving. “Shiro's a bit dense that way, and looking after the rest of us has gotten to be a habit. He's a classic hero, isn't he?”

Pidge giggled. “Right out of a superhero comic. It's cute, and we need him to be that way, but not _all_ the time. You know, I used to picture all the classic comic book heroes and villains on their days off, slopping around their secret lairs and Fortresses of Solitude in their pajamas and bunny slippers, with bed-head and no makeup, watching Saturday morning cartoons while eating Froot-O's out of the box.”

Hunk laughed. “Yeah, and I always pictured them having movie nights with their evil nemeses and throwing popcorn at the screen whenever one of the characters did something dumb. I mean, can you just imagine the Silver Samurai and Storm Shadow watching some complete turkey of a chop-socky movie--”

“ _Big Trouble in Little China,”_ Pidge said with a grin. “That one's so bad, it's hilarious.”

“--Yeah, it is, isn't it?” Hunk said, and waved an expressive hand. “But seriously, some of those guys, they really needed each other. I can count six times where Batman died, or almost, and eight where the Joker croaked off, and every single time, the other guy just went to pieces. It was sort of sad, really.”

Pidge gave him a suspicious look. “How is that like Shiro and the rest of us? I could really do without our own enemies, you know.”

“Not at all. I was just geeking out a little.” Hunk shrugged and paused at the snacks booth to get them both cups of something sweet and fizzy. “I've really missed just being able to geek out over things like that, you know. Everybody imagines themselves as superheroes now and again, and we've sort of become our own fantasies.”

Pidge took a sip from her drink, sobering. “Yeah, and it's not as much fun as we thought it would be. Who did you pretend to be when you were a kid?”

Hunk gave her a slightly embarrassed smile. “Magmanimus. You know, from the old Tectonicus vid series. You?”

“Dr. Martha Jones. She knew the TARDIS inside out and backwards,” Pidge snorted. “Or Darth Vader, when I was in a bad mood. And the 50-Foot Woman for most of eighth grade, when one of my gym teachers kept picking on us nerdy types. He had a fancy car that he loved more than his own kids, and I really, really wanted to crush it under my heel sometimes.”

“Classic,” Hunk said approvingly. “Magmanimus would have just melted it into a puddle. I'd melt his fancy car into a puddle for you.”

She smirked and patted his hand. “Thanks, but someone beat you to it. His youngest son took it out one night to one of those country demolition derbies that the cops hate so much, and he totaled it so completely that they couldn't even tell what make or model it had been. Coach Jeffries was in mourning for months, and he never talked to his son again.”

“Poor kid,” Hunk said sympathetically.

“Not really. The son was a problem teen and they hated each other.” Pidge shrugged dismissively. “It just happens that way sometimes. I ran into him just once, and you know who he reminds me of? That skinny henchman guy that Sendak was dragging around, way back in the beginning. Smart, but nasty, and he liked to break other people's things.”

Hunk sighed and maneuvered the cart around a cotton-candy seller. “Well, they can't all be heroes. Hey, look over there! Are those comic books?”

Pidge looked around, and sure enough, there was a booth decorated with posters showing various heroic or villainous-looking persons wearing the same sort of outfits and performing the same sort of posturing that they had come to expect from graphic novels. Shelves and shelves of slim, glossy hardcopy volumes gleamed temptingly at them in the afternoon sun. Curious, they approached, and were immediately met by the smiling vendor.

“Come right in, come right in!” he enthused, waving long, spotty hands at the shelves, as well as at cases of stickers, badges, pins, and other small memorabilia. “We have all the latest issues from the fifty-seven main Core World graphic genres and titles, back issues for one hundred and seventy-three Midworld titles, the annual digital Pan-Empire catalog of every graphic series—including the independent, special-edition, alternate-history, and limited products, and—hmm-hmm! The latest art books from WildHeart Studios, featuring none other than Morand Khorex'Var in his very popular vid series, _Gem of Ekranthos.”_

One hand indicated a life-sized poster of a Galra who, despite a certain family resemblance to Modhri, was far too good-looking to be real, particularly with his shirt off.

Hunk scratched self-consciously at his stomach. “I've always liked old-fashioned superhero comics, myself.”

Utterly unruffled by this statement, the vendor swept them toward a particular rack, leaving the Hoshinthra to mind their cart. “Of course, of course, retro is always popular, and we've got a special shipment in just a few days ago. Very rare, very collectible; an independent artist, naturally, but the art's quite good. The Indek-Tara Press doesn't waste its time with inferior productions. Purest Empire propaganda, of course, or at least on the surface. I know the writer personally, and he's quite good at caricature and double meanings. Here, have a look.”

The graphic novel that the vendor whisked down off of the shelves made Pidge and Hunk stare. Right there on the glossy cover were their own Lions, and they, themselves, along with the rest of the team, were engaged in an epic clash with the Empire's forces in the foreground, while a space battle happened behind them. The artist was indeed quite good—the representations of both Lions and Paladins were almost, but not completely unlike the real thing.

“I don't believe it,” Pidge said, taking the book and flipping through the pages. “Seriously?”

The vendor smiled broadly, sensing a potential sale. “Oh, yes. The writer has been studying every report he could get his hands on, and has followed them very closely. Only where the facts are absent has he allowed himself to guess, and the artist has been working very closely with him. Rather good likeness of Commander Sendak there, isn't it?”

Hunk could only nod. “They managed to make the guy look noble and heroic. Wow. That takes skill. Oh, hey, and here's the Rogue Witch... yikes. Is she evil-looking, or what? And her guy's a thug. Oh, and there's Haggar. Sexy Haggar? Yuck.”

“Sexy Zarkon, too,” Pidge snickered. “Does he really look that good in tights?”

“I'll bet that a lot of people hope so,” Hunk chortled, and flipped a few more pages. “Yup, and there are the Paladins. Wow. Everybody's got weird hair, and they all look pretty much the same.”

“Helmet-hair,” Pidge said firmly, “and no space-combs. They're just thugs in color-coded underwear, remember? Matt totally called it. And there's Lotor... hah! Those guys sure spent a lot of time making him look sexy. Whoa, super sexy. Four servant girls?”

“Livin' the dream,” Hunk said, winking at her. “Don't look at me like that, you've got four hot guys at your beck and call. Same diff, right?”

Pidge sniffed loftily. “Hardly. None of you ever wear harem gear, and not one of you has ever given me a massage and a good brushing.”

“All you have to do is ask. I'm pretty sure that the fabricator could come up with something nice and diaphanous, and one of Lance's cousins taught me the basics of belly dancing...” Hunk flipped over a bunch of pages, and stared. “Holy cow, will you look at that? They've given Sendak a heroic demise. Brought down on him by a monster. That's a pretty good monster, too.”

Pidge, who had been one-third of that monster, eyed it critically. “Yeah, pretty good. I like the glowing eyes and the fiery breath, but I'm not so sure about the spikes. It looks like one of those old naval mines, but with feet.”

Hunk turned over another stack of pages. “Yeah, monsters have a real image problem, don't they? Now, how far along does this thing take... uh.”

They stared at the image on the page. It was a full-page image, and it was very full of... well, they weren't quite sure. It certainly involved more than one person, and rather athletically so. Pidge swallowed hard. “Um... what is this?”

The vendor peered over her shoulder and made a fluting noise of slightly embarrassed amusement. “Ah. And that is why we had to list this book under 'Adult Fiction'. It's more of a legend than anything else, a bit of salacious fantasy, really, but it is said that in the ancient days, the Lions would often induce... ah... _romantic feelings_ within their pilots. Often to the point of group spawning, I'm afraid. There is a scandalous amount of pornographic fiction being distributed, I'm sorry to say, and since no one knows exactly what the Paladins look like under the armor, or even what races they might belong to, the artists tend to let their imaginations wallow in the gutter a bit. You aren't offended, I hope?”

Pidge was vibrating with the effort of trying not to laugh; Hunk turned a page, this time beholding a double-page spread in full color. “No-o-o-o-o,” Hunk said carefully, wondering if Keith really could bend that far backward. “Although it might haunt my dreams some. How much?”

Pidge turned the page. The next image, just as lushly rendered, featured the green Paladin as its centerpiece, accompanied by three... oops; no, _four_ others. She could hear her Lion purring, and blushed when the great cat offered a few suggestions.

“For two such discerning customers,” the vendor said cheerfully, “I will offer the one-time price of only eight hundred and fifty gac.”

“Oh,” Hunk said with some disappointment, glancing up sadly as Pidge flipped over another page. “That's a shame, 'cause--”

“Hunk, I will have this book,” Pidge said, and the vendor flinched back in sudden apprehension from her burning eyes. “For eight hundred fifty, I could get a whole encyclopedia set. Do you dare overcharge me, Bezonian?”

Hunk got out of her way; he knew that tone of voice, and knew better than to hang around when she used it on someone. Instead, he slipped back to where the Hoshinthra was standing, and even the fact that the big alien had another unfortunate street thief caught in his teeth couldn't draw his attention away from the drama unfolding among the graphic novels. Pidge had done very well in her haggling sessions today, and this looked to be one of those “ultimate test” situations. It wasn't loud; Nasty had told him once that the most important haggling matches never were. Indeed, he couldn't hear their words above the noise of the crowd, but he could see the expressions of intense concentration and the furious gesticulations on both Pidge's and the vendor's part.

“Pidge'll be a minute,” Hunk told the Hoshinthra without taking his eyes off of the pair. “She's found something that she really wanted.”

“ _Mrph,”_ the Hoshinthra replied indistinctly.

“Um...” the captured thief said in a thin, terrified voice. “Do you think that you could convince your... uh... friend here to let go?”

“Not just yet,” Hunk said absently. “She might need you.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah. She seriously wants that book, but she's only got pocket change left, and... yeah.” Hunk patted his pockets and peered into his pouches. “She's got the last of mine, too. She used to pirate for a living, and still has all the skills. How good a thief are you, anyway?”

The thief, whose left shoulder and arm were only a few pounds of pressure per square inch away from becoming a monster's lunch, gulped unhappily. “Not as good as I had thought.”

“Well, Dasher here is a tricky target. Had a good morning, though?”

The thief waggled his ears in confusion. “Yeah. Why?”

Hunk flicked a finger at the argument a little distance away. “Wait and see.”

It was a pretty good wrangle, Hunk thought a little time later. So far, they were up to seven minutes of continuous haggling without either disputant backing down or smacking the other with a rolled-up fanzine. They had each gotten in the full range of body language, and he didn't think that they'd devolved into name-calling yet. From the look of frustration and anger on Pidge's face, she may have met her match. Eventually, she glanced in Hunk's direction, spotted what Dasher had in his mouth, and smiled unpleasantly. Seizing the vendor by the shirt, she dragged the poor fellow over to where Hunk and the Hoshinthra were standing.

“Hi!” she greeted the captured thief brightly, her hand still locked around the fistful of shirt. “How much are you willing to pay to keep the arm?”

The thief stared at her. The vendor stared at the Hoshinthra. Hunk stared at the coveted book held so possessively beneath her arm. Just what had she seen in that thing?

The thief, at least, could put two and two together. “Enough to buy you a book?”

“That's the going rate,” she said, shooting the veiled Warrior a sharp look. “This guy wants six hundred and seventy-five gac for the book. I've got forty-three. Do the math.”

The thief awkwardly pulled a handful of wallets out of one large vest pocket and dropped them into her hands. Pidge counted out the requisite bills and placed those into the vendor's hands, which were shaking slightly, and his six eyes were very wide as they looked the Hoshinthra over. “There,” she said. “All paid up! Thank you very much!”

The vendor had gone a sickly yellow color. “That... that wouldn't be a Hoshinthra, would it?” he whispered.

Hunk rapped his knuckles on the Warrior's shoulder, and it let go of the thief's arm. Freed, the hapless fellow sprinted frantically away into the crowd, and was gone in seconds. Hunk shrugged. “Why would you think that?” he asked. “Do you know what they look like?”

“No!” the vendor rasped, backing away. “No one has ever seen one and lived!”

“Then it can't be a Hoshinthra,” Hunk rationalized. “You're seeing him, and you're not dead. This is a Doom Moose, and he's a buddy. Have a nice day, sir. Come on, Dasher, I want to look around some more.”

They continued onward in silence until Hunk was sure that they were out of earshot, and then said in a low voice, “Okay, I've gotta know. What made you want that book so much?”

Pidge flipped her prize open to that all-important page. “The artist got a lot of stuff wrong, but he got this much right.”

Hunk glanced down and saw the illustration. In it the green and yellow Paladins were cuddling, looking unbelievably happy together. “Aww,” Hunk said, his heart melting. “And here I thought you had the hots for Keith.”

She smiled up at him, closing the book and tucking it safely under her arm. “I do. I pretty much have the hots for everybody. He's something special, but so are you. Want to read this thing with me later?”

Hunk smiled hugely. “Any time you want, Pidge. We'll wear our best PJ's and have a nice evening.”

“I'd really like that,” Pidge said. “Maybe after dinner?”

“You're on,” Hunk replied happily, pushing the cart with a will.

Unremarked in the rear, the Hoshinthra followed them, learning new things with every step they took.

Elsewhere in the market, Shiro was having an excellent time. He'd found a very nice utility vest with multiple pockets, a rather beautiful glass paperweight with exotic flowers inside, and a first-class backpack that was currently holding not only his own purchases, but Keith's as well. Keith was having an absolute blast at a swordsmith's booth right now, and quite a crowd had gathered to watch him play. The smith herself seemed to be a fixture in this part of town, for there was no way that her forge was portable, and the burly Kerogan craftswoman maintained a generous practice yard to one side of her workspace. At the moment, she was beaming with pride as Keith demonstrated the quality of her wares, while her assistants sold similar pieces hand over fist to the fascinated onlookers. Shiro toyed with the idea of commissioning a katana or a wakazashi from her—the smith really was producing a very good grade of steel here, but dismissed the notion. He just didn't have the time to explain the traditional techniques, and he might not be back here any time soon. Instead, he settled for watching Keith mop the floor with the local street toughs.

Keith had a style that was truly all his own; there were the elements of the early sword training that Shiro himself had given him, and the techniques that he'd picked up in fencing class at the Garrison. There were hints of an Altean style, adapted from the techniques that had been programmed into the Castle's gladiator drones, and a heaping helping of the techniques that Zaianne had taught him. Shiro smiled as he recognized the dirty tricks that Nasty had supplied as well, and a good deal of the young man's own ingenuity, and the combination of so many diverse and rare styles was utterly baffling to his foes.

Keith was up against a skilled opponent this time, a big, heavily-built Galra that might have had some Korbexan blood in him, a scarred veteran of many street battles. He was grinning fearsomely, obviously enjoying himself; Keith's grin was no less fearsome, for all that his own fangs were much smaller. Shiro didn't know if the others had noticed yet, but the young man's canine teeth were starting to lengthen now, as just a little more of his mother's blood manifested in him. The match ended in a draw, with Keith's knife poised to disembowel the larger man, and the Galra's weapon positioned to remove Keith's leg at the hip. They drew back from those killing strikes to the roar of applause from the audience and bowed respectfully to each other. Keith waved off the suggestion of another match, shook the big man's hand, and tried to return the knife to the smith. To Shiro's surprise and approval, the smith let him keep it, and even provided a whetstone and a sheath; the woman had done very good business today, and one could not buy that kind of advertising.

Shiro met the proud young man with a smile and a tall glass of water, which Keith gulped down with a nod of thanks. “Good match,” Shiro said, “ever think of becoming a prize-fighter?”

Keith shoved sweat-damp hair out of his eyes, and Shiro was sure that the thin ring of gold around his irises had broadened. “Nope, but you're not the first to ask. The lady back there offered me a job, if I wasn't doing anything more important. I almost wish that I wasn't. There are some good people here. That big guy? _Skills,_ Shiro. He's the leader of one of the gangs in the green-flag markets, and they're respected around here.”

“Well, we won't be fighting Zarkon forever,” Shiro said, patting him on the shoulder. “You might consider a second job here. I can see you as a ganglord.”

Keith grinned wryly; that was a future that Shiro had worked very hard to avert, back on Earth. “Don't tempt me. Okay, your turn. Seen anything that you want to check out?”

“There's a bookseller over there that looks interesting, and a music booth that I want to take a closer look at.” Shiro turned and pointed down the busy street. “And a snack booth that smells too good to pass up.”

Keith's eyes glinted. He'd worked up an appetite in the ring, and still had some gac to spend. “Sounds like a plan. Let me just put this knife away, and we'll go have a look.”

Shiro turned obligingly and stood still while Keith tucked the well-earned knife away in his backpack, and then continued contentedly down the street. Pidge had been right. They had needed this, and he was not sorry to have come. The others were enjoying themselves as well, he thought, checking on them through the Lion-bond. It was being a good day, and he could feel himself starting to relax. They spent some time in the music-seller's booth, listening to melodies that ranged from the hauntingly beautiful to the aurally absurd, stopped at the snacks booth to purchase long skewers of intriguingly-spiced meat, and eventually fetched up at the bookseller's curbside emporium. It was a tidy establishment, with multiple racks of both hardcopy books and data chips, all ruthlessly sorted by alphabetical order, genre, and subject matter, and stands stood here and there holding a choice selection of bookmarks and pocket chip players. The bookseller itself, who resembled an explosion of blue feathers barely contained by a macrame waistcoat, looked up from its own reading material to give them what was probably a smile.

“Good day, gentlebeings,” it said in a remarkably rich baritone. “What pleasures of the written word do you seek?”

Shiro looked around at the racks, unable to read most of the titles without Hunk's handy text translator. “I'm not sure. What have you got?”

“Aha! A sapient willing to learn,” the bookseller said happily. “A little of everything, of course. Histories, mysteries, fact, fantasy, and fiction both good and bad. Reference work, medical texts, several different encyclopedias and dictionaries, numerous books on arts and crafts, children's puzzles, adult puzzles, coloring books, and adult media. I would love to add philosophy, religion, and ancient languages, but I haven't quite achieved the rank for those. Care to help me along a little, gentlebeings? Every little sale helps.”

Keith smiled. “Maybe. Do you have anything on making blades?”

“Several,” their feathery host said promptly. “Ancient and modern techniques, both reference and instructional, both for the production of the items and the proper use of same. My personal recommendation would be Yont Gip'Thak Gazpalen's _Ever Sharp: A compendium of edged utensils through the ages, with techniques and instructions for the curious._ Very clean, very clear, excellent illustrations, and covers the bladecraft of five different worlds. I might also recommend Bomfoozle the Obsessive's _Skulduggery for Fun and Profit._ He was a retired mercenary, you know, and could make a weapon out of absolutely anything. A little given to telling old war stories, but those are entertaining and information-rich enough to make it worthwhile.”

“Cool,” Keith said. “Anything on working luxite?”

The bookseller ruffled its feathers. “Mmm, not as such. Luxite alloy is extraordinarily rare, and its formulation was a very great secret. More so now than ever, since the planet where it was developed was destroyed. It is said that a quasi-religious secret society among the Galra still make it, but it's all conjecture at this point; that society was branded a terrorist group long ago, and the Empire has devoted a great deal of time and effort to stamping them out. There are a few examples of their bladecraft in museums and private collections here and there, but very little is known of the society itself. All that I can say for certain is that they do not approve of the people currently in power. Here, let me pull out those two books I mentioned for you, and feel free to take a good look. I believe that luxite is mentioned in the Bomfoozle, generally in terms dripping with envy; he may have met someone who had one.”

“Thanks,” Keith said, and received two high-capacity data chips.

Shiro peered interestedly over Keith's shoulder as he began to page through the two books. The art of sword-smithing was an important part of his own culture, and it was strangely comforting to know that Japan wasn't alone in that. He also noticed that his teammate lingered over the instructions on how to build the forges necessary for that kind of work.

“Thinking of picking up a new hobby?” Shiro asked.

Keith didn't even look up. “Maybe. I watched that weaponsmith lady work for a while before trying that knife out. _Fire,_ Shiro.”

Shiro rested an understanding hand on his shoulder. Ever since they had accepted the Lion-bond, they had been drawn to the elemental forces that the Lions embodied, himself no less than the others. He could guess at the yearning that the young man must have felt, to thrust his hands into the forge and shape the steel himself. Was it possible to shape time itself, he wondered, and make a tool or a weapon of it?

The Lion rumbled in the back of his mind, but he knew the answer already. Of course it was; he had done it himself, and not all that long ago. Tiny increments, thin and brief as the edge of a freshly-honed blade, were all that were necessary to improve one's chances of winning. It wasn't easy—shaping such forces was never easy, but it could be done when there was sufficient need.

“And you, gentlebeing,” the bookseller asked him hopefully, “have you other interests? Martial arts? Adventure novels? Historical reenactment?”

Shiro smiled a touch bashfully. “Guilty pleasures, actually. Do you have romance novels?”

The bookseller made a noise like a barnful of owls, which might have been appreciative laughter. “Guilty pleasures, indeed! I shall have to remember that. Yes, yes, a very popular genre, ridiculously so, and I have been required to stay current with a large number of popular authors. I have historical romances, futuristic romances, alternate-universe romances, contemporary romances, fictional and nonfictional romances, smut, good smut, and bad smut. Regrettably—in my own personal opinion, mind you—I have been forced to stock Bethrine Chanx'Gara's _Conquests of the Champion_ series as well, which concerns one of the poor souls that the Emperor tossed into the arena. Based on a real person, it is said, of mysterious origin and great prowess, strong and skilled enough to prevail over even Haggar's test subjects. Ah. I see that you share my disapproval.”

Shiro had gone cold inside, and dark images quivered in his memory. Phantom pain twinged across his right bicep, and he clenched the fist to reassure himself that it was not made of metal. “I'm not a fan of gladiator-slave fantasies, no.”

“I quite understand,” the bookseller said. “Bethrine's style is far too florid in any case, and for all her skill with a double-entendre, she has always been and will always be a predator. She does tend to linger over the gory details, alas. Not good for light reading, if you happen to be an herbivore or an omnivore. Here, though, much gentler and screamingly funny, Umpootra Billet-Hoo-Nirrit's celebrated _Flowers of the Long Meadow_ series, which combine steamy passion with a wide variety of other subjects. And here, Tiklambati's _Love Amidst the Candlesticks,_ a stand-alone novel of unusual purity of emotion. Ah—and here, Twonk-Nak-Blophwee's _Stars and Shallow Mud-Puddles_ is currently on its fifty-third edition. Old Twonk had the most elegant turn of phrase, and was able to find beauty in the humblest of subjects. Good poet, too. Are you interested in mythology? If so, I heartily recommend _Adoration of the Divine_ by Tandrok Chalep'Thora. Very hard to find these days, since that family met with the Emperor's displeasure, and I am very lucky to have a clean copy. Tandrok was one of the great theologians of his people, and possessed a rare sense of humor.”

Keith looked up in puzzlement. “I thought you didn't have any religious texts.”

The bookseller waved a downy hand. “Not of active religions, I don't. The old deities of the Galran people have been largely abandoned, more's the pity, in favor of the edifice of reverence that surrounds the Emperor. It's a cult of personality that has quite gotten out of hand and has stayed that way for a very long time; to the average being on the street, Zarkon might as well be a living god. Not a kindly one, but one that is indisputably present. I believe that there are no more than twelve temples remaining to the ancestral deities, and most of those function as tourist traps; only one has continued unchanged since the ancient days, and only because it is situated well within the boundaries of a inviolable area, and only because it keeps its interests strictly divorced from anything that even looks like politics.”

“Smart,” Shiro said, forcing himself to relax and cursing his backbrain for getting upset about some silly author's bad choice of subject matter. “I might want to have a look at that one, actually. I'd like to know more about the roots of Galran history.”

“And in a field that many researchers neglect,” the bookseller said approvingly. “Indeed! Allow me to fetch that down, along with my other recommendations. Feel free to peruse beyond those, of course. Far too many people have forgotten the subtle joys of good prose.”

The Chalep'Thora was a genuine leatherbound grimoire, and beautifully-preserved despite a few scuffs and minor creases. Gorgeous full-color illustrations abounded on nearly every page, showing ancient carvings and statuary, ceremonial dress, rituals, and sacred objects in beautiful detail. Flipping through the pages a little brought him to a picture that took his breath away: a group image of twelve godly figures, and some of them were familiar. They looked nothing like anybody he knew—it was the body language, the stances, the intensity of expression, a certain sort of smile that he had seen before, and he had seen them in both his team and his acquaintances in the Fleet... and in his dreams. He had even seen one or two in the mirror, and reflected that these had not been distant, vague-shape-in-the-sky deities. These had been more like the gods of ancient Egypt, or perhaps the Greco-Roman pantheon, who were said to have walked often among mortalkind. Almost unbidden, his eyes sought out one dark figure with three broken knives at his belt and a pale spear in one hand, a wry smile on his face. _Yes, here I am,_ that smile seemed to say, _here we all are, hiding in plain sight. Come and find us._

“Lovely work, absolutely lovely,” the bookseller said wistfully, setting a stack of data cards down on a nearby counter. “I'd keep that book all to myself if I didn't have a second copy tucked safely away. Here—all of these cards have an audio option if you aren't a polyglot. Just press the orange spot here to listen to the synopsis. I'll be right over there, just alert me when you're finished.”

Shiro was good, he did listen to each and every one of the synopses, and even chose a few at random from the nearby racks, but his hand kept straying back to the smooth leather cover of the book. It felt alive, and friendly in a way that he had encountered before in only one place; his grandfather's private book collection, many years ago. There had been a particular volume of Japanese ghost stories, and he and his _Ojiisan_ had spent many long nights clutching each other in delighted terror at the ancient tales contained therein. The old man had given it to him as a graduation present, and he could still remember the weight of that old friend in his hands. This was very much the same, if worlds apart in origin.

“You want that book, Shiro,” Keith said from behind him as he pulled his hand away once again from the soft burgundy leather.

Shiro started in surprise, nearly spilling his stack of data chips on the ground. “What?”

“You want that book, or it wants you.” Keith picked up the heavy tome and moved as if to take it away; Shiro wasn't able to stop himself from taking a step forward, reaching out a hand to retrieve it. “I've still got some cash if you need the extra, but you've gotta have the book.”

“Keith, I...” Shiro protested, his hands aching to hold it again.

Keith shook his head and gave it back. “I've seen this before. Dad used to take me to offroad-vehicle expositions when I was little, just so that we could see what the high-rollers were riding, and he used to tell me that there were different types of wanting. There are things that you need, but don't always want. There are things that you'd like to have, but can do without. There are things that you want like crazy for the first few minutes, but after that, you forget about them, and there are things that you put back on the shelf and walk away from, and then spend the next month kicking yourself over not getting them when you had the chance. And then there are the things that you can't walk away from, because doing that would be like pulling out a kidney and leaving it behind. You just can't do it, right?”

Shiro gave him a weak smile. “No, I can't. Well, maybe I can get Zaianne to teach me how to read Galran script. This is... this is _important,_ and I don't know why.”

“Well, I'd like to read it,” Keith said, examining the gilded symbols on the cover. “I bet that anything in there could beat _Snow White and the Seven Dwarves_ with one hand tied behind its back, and I'd like to know more about Mom's side of my heritage. She says that everything that happened after Zarkon took over is pretty depressing, anyway.”

That was good enough for Shiro, and he and Keith took their books up to the desk where the bookseller was sitting. Unfortunately, the Chalep'Thora was more expensive than they had thought. “I cannot offer a discount,” the bookseller said, its feathers drooping sadly. “I am very sorry, but the volume is extremely rare, and obtaining it and the second copy wiped out a month's profits. Even if both of you were to return your other choices, it would not be enough.”

Keith saw the chagrin on Shiro's face and steeled himself to make a sacrifice. “Well, will you take barter? I've got a really nice knife from the swordsmith down the street that--”

There was a faint “whoops!” and a soft thud. Shiro had been holding the book upright, balanced on its spine on the counter, and it had slipped out of his fingers. It had fallen open, in fact, to a page showing a sketch drawing of one of the gods that, for all of its simplicity, looked remarkably as if the deity was coming right out of the page. One clawed finger was pointing directly at Shiro, while the irritated expression on the god's face was aimed at the bookseller, who had puffed up into an absurd downy ball in shock.

They stood frozen like that for a long, startled moment, and then the bookseller said in a shaking voice, “I have read that very book three times from cover to cover, and I have not seen that drawing before. I have an extremely good memory for images, and that picture did not exist before this!”

They stared at the illustration. It remained stubbornly extant.

“Sorry,” said Shiro.

The bookseller seemed to deflate as its feathers settled, and the plumes over the dome of its head rippled as a third, very dark eye opened up, parting the feathers like an island rising out of a fluffy sea. “Your pardon, gentlebeings, but I don't do business with magi. I shall soon see exactly...”

Its words trailed off in surprise, and it stared at them in disbelief for several seconds before slamming the third eye closed with a sound like a distressed pelican. “Take the book,” it said sharply, feathers puffing up again. “Take the book and go, quickly! Magi are bad enough, but _K'pokimi-Bansha?_ Begone, before your _ithessika terbashk iplonim_ becomes entwined with mine—I get quite enough excitement on a daily basis as it is!”

They left all of their gac on the counter anyway, to pay for the more common media, and then hurried out of the booth the moment that Keith had stuffed the book into Shiro's backpack. It made a solid and surprisingly comfortable weight against his back, like a reassuring hand. “That was weird,” Keith observed, once they were safely out of sight of the bookseller's booth. “I wonder what he meant by all that. What's a... um... kapok-immy bansha?”

Shiro shook his head. “I don't know. I'm not sorry, though. I should be, but I'm not.”

Keith flashed him a quick smile. “Good. Dad once said that if you're not sorry about a pricey purchase, then it was predestined to be.”

Shiro snorted a brief laugh. “Predestined by who?”

Keith shrugged. “Just sort of generally predestined _._ Dad wasn't much interested in metaphysics, except where it came to Christmas presents. Holy crud, Shiro, we've missed at least three Christmasses, and three birthdays.”

“Possibly four,” Shiro agreed. “We've been very busy. There just hasn't been time.”

Keith scowled. “Maybe we should make time. Just enough to have a party and pass around a few gifts, maybe. Oh, crud, there's another problem. What do you get a space hero who already has pretty much everything?”

Shiro let out a long breath and let Keith prattle on about gift shopping in space as they walked along. He had been a brooding, often angry child while growing up, and holidays and birthdays had been among the very few things that could lighten his sullen moods. That he was thinking more about what his teammates would want, rather than his own desires, was a very nice change. Shiro didn't doubt that the others would take fire at the idea of some sort of annual celebration as well, but right now, he was perfectly happy to watch Keith doing so. He really was growing up to be a magnificent young man, Shiro thought, and his hybrid blood only added to the attraction. The proud angles of the face, the gold-ringed eyes, the long, soft hair that was almost but not quite fur, the lean and powerful body, even the faint aroma of saffron and canine that hung around him when he'd been exercising was terribly attractive. It went deeper, of course; the stalwart heart and invincible courage, the anger that he had learned to channel into determination, the unthinking bravery of the young man was wonderful to behold. What would it be like to hold that young hero, as he had once held Adam?

By this time, they had reached a large open space, possibly the original market square in this part of town, and Keith had paused to take it all in. Coming up beside him, Shiro bent to deposit a kiss atop that dark-haired head, only to miss; Keith had dropped into a fighting crouch, glaring at someone on the far side of the square. _“You!”_ Keith barked, and lunged forward, his bayard flashing out of his pocket.

Shiro looked up, saw a figure that he knew only from images, and let out a curse. Keying his communicator, he summoned the others.

“Sir, _please,”_ Tilwass protested, shifting his grip on their shopping bags. “Not until we're safely back at port, all right? The gloves, okay, maybe, but leave the hat alone. There's been some folks up on rooftops and in the alleys that have been giving us looks that I don't like.”

Lotor was out of patience. “Tilwass, I am sweltering! Have you ever had to wear this monstrosity yourself?”

Tilwass scowled at him. “Yeah. My aunt insisted. Then I achieved enough rank to safely ignore her orders. It's not a good hat for a hot day, I'll freely admit that, but neither of us had a different one that would do. You won't cut your hair or dye your fur, so you'll just have to put up with what we've got. Come on, let's get back to the lander. Dhak says that they're done stowing the cargo and can leave at any time.”

“Finally,” Lotor sighed, and grimaced as a trickle of sweat ran unpleasantly down the back of his neck. “What's the fastest way back to the port, Tilwass?”

Tilwass jerked a thumb at a nearby street map. “Back the same way we came, really. We can save a little time if we cut through the orange and green-flag markets, but we'll have to be careful. Things can get rough in there.”

Lotor studied the colorful map. The markets were all tangled together like a nest of serpents, with small dark areas scattered among the more visitor-friendly districts. “Too roundabout for my taste. Why not cut through the black-flag markets, here and here?”

Tilwass shook his head gravely. “Not a good idea. I asked Dhak about it, and he said to stay well clear of those spots. Bad things happen there, sir. Every so often on his previous visits, one or two of his crew would take it as a challenge, and would go in to see what all the fuss was about. They didn't come back, sir. The one time Dhak managed to get the local bigshots to help look for them, all they found was a series of jars.”

Lotor stared at him. “Jars?”

Tilwass nodded. “Jars, sir. Some races out here will pay a lot of gac for pickled Galra parts, and they don't really care how those parts were obtained. Don't ask what they use 'em for, neither.”

“And the Governor permits this?” Lotor demanded.

“The Governor gets paid to ignore it.” Tilwass scratched nervously at the back of his neck and glared suspiciously over his shoulder. “Your daddy posts people out here to get rid of them, sir. Anybody with integrity or skill gets to stay closer to home. See all those little symbols around the black spots on the map? That's the local sign for 'at your own risk'. If you get horribly murdered in there, it's your own stupid fault for trespassing in the first place, and what passes for cops around here won't look any further into it.”

Lotor turned to observe the bustling market square nearby, where just about anything and everything was being bought and sold. “I would think that such areas would be bad for business.”

“Hepplans, sir,” Tilwass replied with a shrug. “More than anything else, they're realists. They know damned well how profitable smuggling illegal stuff is, and that it's going to happen no matter what they do. They could waste a whole hell of a lot of gac and effort trying to keep the markets legal, or they can make a whole hell of a lot more gac by simply letting the smugglers have their own districts. The patrols are mostly for making sure that everybody minds their own business. Yeah, a lot of evil stuff happens, but at least it happens where they can see it.”

Lotor growled and scratched at the nape of his neck, which itched abominably. The hat, already unstable and knocked askew by his long fingers, slopped forward over his eyes, and he yanked it off with a snarled curse. The fresh air was wonderfully cool on his damp scalp, and he completely ignored his lieutenant's bleat of protest as he shook out his hair. He was just turning to tell Tilwass to take his objections and stuff them up the orifice of his choice when a familiar voice shouted _“You!”_ from across the square. Surprised, Lotor jerked his head around to see an equally familiar face shoving its way through the crowd.

“Red Paladin,” Lotor breathed, not even hearing Tilwass groan. “Here? At last.”

Casting the hated hat aside and drawing his sword, he leaped forward to meet the worthy foe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, you all knew this would happen. XD Also, thank you everyone for your patience and understanding and especially the encouragement. It means a lot to Spanch and I, and keeps us going, even if the progress is a little slower. You guys are amazing.


	31. And Now, We Fight!  And Run!  But Mostly Fight!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to apologize in advance for any typos you see in this chapter. I did try to edit properly, but my brain was also filled with dryer lint at the time, so I probably missed something more than once. I hope everyone is doing as well as possible under the circumstances, and that this chapter gives you a little fun to brighten your day!

Chapter Thirty-One: And Now, We Fight! And Run! But Mostly Fight!

The denizens of the flagged markets of Thek-Audha were no strangers to street battles. Each and every market had its own collection of gangs, each of whom had their own fans and followings, and held regular matches for pride, honor, territory, and the amusement of their neighborhoods. Visitors to the planet would occasionally encounter a rival or a foe, and such unscheduled duels were considered to be not only free entertainment, but a welcome business opportunity for a certain segment of the local entrepreneurs. When Lotor and Keith sprinted across the pavement, swords glinting in the late-afternoon sunlight, the crowds parted like a sea around a really first-class prophet to give them room. Almost instantly, bookies started offering odds and taking wagers, photographers and videographers were capturing every possible angle, sides were being taken, and itinerant hot-food sellers had appeared as if by magic. Oblivious to their audience, Lotor and Keith met each other in the center of the square, their blades ringing like bells and sending sparks spraying to the pavement.

Lotor smiled in appreciation of the strength that he had felt in that first clash of swords. “I've waited a long time for this meeting, Paladin,” he purred. “How fortuitous.”

“This ends here, Lotor,” Keith snarled.

Behind them, both Tilwass and Shiro facepalmed in exasperated unison.

“What's going on?” Lance panted, running up and tossing his bags into Hunk's shopping cart, Coran and Allura right behind him. “We got Shiro's call, but lost most of it 'cause a theatrical group went operatic on us back there.”

“Keith's gotten into a fight,” Pidge informed them. “Lotor showed up and the two of them are having a samurai standoff in the big square up there. Come on, guys, help Hunk get that cart moving! If we have to, we can use it as a battering ram.”

“Yeah,” Hunk said, giving the handle of the cart a shove. “He tried to give us some directions, too, but I don't think we're gonna need them. We just need to head for the noise.”

Hunk was right. The peculiarly oceanic roar of an excited crowd was clearly audible to the west of them, and they steered the heavily-laden cart down the nearest street that led in that direction. Even the Hoshinthra lent a hand to help push it along, hooves striking sparks from the pavement as it kept pace with them. Past a distracted music seller, past a forge whose fires and sparring yards were being neglected, past a feathery blue bookseller who was hastily closing up shop, they ran at the best speed they could manage without actually trampling innocent bystanders. Eventually, they came to a solid wall of people that forced them to stop. Pidge clambered up onto the cart in an attempt to see what was going on.

“Is it him?” Allura called out over the noise of the crowd.

“Yeah, it's him, all right,” Pidge shouted back. “They're really going at it. Put different-colored headbands on them and we could film our own ninja movie. Shiro? Where the heck are you?”

“I'm here,” Shiro said, fighting his way through the mass of people. “Keith took off before I could stop him, and the crowd won't let me through.”

“Well, it isn't done to interrupt an epic sword fight between old nemeses,” Coran said, using his superior height to peer over the crush. “Alfor used to get into fights like this all the time, and so did all of his predecessors. It's a red Paladin thing, I'm afraid. The Lions do tend to choose their own preferred personality types, and Keith's absolutely typical of the breed.”

Someone on the other side of the crowd roared aggressively, closely followed by the sound of two professional swordsmen trying to chop through each other's defenses. The crowd roared in appreciation and packed even more tightly together. Hunk groaned and shifted his grip on the cart's handles. “Guys, I really don't want to have to mow anyone down with this thing, but if we don't get him out of there soon, we'll probably be up to our ears in Galra. Lotor's got a whole fleet, remember.”

“Yeah,” Pidge agreed and pulled out her bayard. “Well, maybe if I dial down the voltage a little, I can get some of these people to move.”

“Pidge!” Allura said, “you wouldn't! I don't want any more trouble than we're already in. Besides, tasing innocent bystanders is terribly rude.”

Pidge gave her an impatient look. “So are firefights in public areas. Look, I really can--”

A sharp squawk nearby forestalled her logic, and the sudden ascent of a birdlike alien not too far away revealed that Pidge's idea had occurred to at least one other person, who had similar means and didn't bother much with ethics. An aroma of caramelized phor bulb, almost-mustard, and dubious proteins filled the air as one of the many itinerant food sellers approached in the form of a smallish, vaguely ratlike alien with a portable cooktop slung from his shoulders, and in one hand was a long toasting fork that he'd been using to encourage people to get out of his way with. Seeing their startled expressions, he hurried over with an ingratiating smile.

“'Ullo, Gentles,” he said cheerfully, waving the fork jauntily. “Hot meat pie? Sausage inna bun? All products genuine prolg! Organic, even!”

Allura glanced over and stared in mild revulsion. “Just what part of the prolg are we talking about, then?”

The food-seller looked hurt. “It's _sausage,_ miss. It don't matter what part it is, if it's in sausage. Well-known fact.”

Lance stared in horror at the cooktop, which had things on it. “Dude, that sausage has _legs._ It's moving!”

“Fast food, sir,” the food-seller said, stunning the peripatetic offering with the fork and enshrouding it in what might have been a hot-dog bun in a previous life. “Come on, only five gac, and that's slitting my own gantwick.”

Hunk stared. He'd read about this, but had never thought to see an example in real life. “No. Guys, back away from the tray. Scram, pal, we don't have any money. Dasher, you too, that's a Dibbler, he'll give you food poisoning.”

“Now, see here, that's discrimination!” the food-seller spluttered indignantly. “Just because some aliens might not have the right gut flora to deal with a properly organic meal doesn't mean--”

The Hoshinthra swung its head around and snapped viciously at the food seller, who squealed in alarm and fled, spilling several sausages in his haste. Much like their erstwhile owner, they hit the ground running and soon vanished into the distance.

Coran gave Hunk a surprised look. “How'd you know? I'm positive that you've never even seen one.”

Hunk glanced back at him. “One what?”

“Why, a Dypblar, of course,” Coran said, waving a hand in the general direction of the fleeing food-seller. “Well-known and widely-avoided even in Grandfather's day, and generally considered to be a minor nuisance wherever large multiracial gatherings were to be found. Originated on one of those odd worlds where more than one intelligent species emerged, and made it out into the wider universe by stowing away in other people's cargo holds. Used to be considered an invasive species, as a matter of fact, and were suspected of being the source of any number of food-borne epidemics. Blaytz thought they were funny, but Gyrgan wouldn't be caught dead in the same district as one of 'em, and Trigel had to smack Alfor upside the head to keep him from buying anything. It's the mustard, you know. Dangerously addictive. Zarkon just started sneezing, though. He was allergic to 'em.”

Hunk stared owlishly at him. “I read about one in a book. On Earth. Written by a Human author over a hundred years ago. It was a big family, and they sort of got everywhere.”

“Dypblars,” Coran said firmly. “They certainly did, and either one made it down to your unsuspecting little planet, or Shiro's not the only fellow with prescience about.”

“Would that such talents were more common,” Zaianne snapped, coming down the nearest wall like a spider. “What is he _doing?_ At least a hundred silent alarms went off a few minutes ago, and there are Ghamparva and bounty-hunters swarming out of the black-flag and red-flag markets like gorp-roaches! I've alerted the local chapter of the Blade, but they may be outnumbered. We have to leave, and now.”

“Too late!” Coran said, pointing at a dark figure upon a rooftop across the square from them.

Lance looked up and bared his teeth in anger. His vision and eye for detail was very good, and he was immediately able to not only identify the lurker as a Galra sniper, but was also able to recognize the uniform—matte black with dark purple piping. Ghamparva. He _hated_ Ghamparva. “Oh, no you don't,” he said, whipping out his own bayard and firing a single azure bolt that knocked the enemy off of the roof.

The people nearest them jumped at the sudden burst of light and noise, and when Hunk shouted, “Make a hole, people!”, that's what they did.

Even as they forced their way through, they could see other spots of agitation causing ripples in the crowd; numerous individuals were waving weapons about, which was inspiring the locals to respond in kind, and there were many grim faces in the throng now that had calculating eyes fixed firmly on the two people still dueling in the ring. The crowd's anxiety levels were rising, and Shiro knew that they would have to act fast. Right now, this huge mass of people, most of them armed, was two inches away from becoming either a riot or a stampede, and he wanted no part of either. He might have felt a little better to have known that Tilwass had come to the same conclusion, and was fighting his way forward through the press as well.

Keith, on the other hand, was oblivious to everything but his foe at the moment. His heart thundered in his chest and his lungs burned, but there was nothing and no one that could bank his inner fires now. The crowd did not exist. The market did not exist. Nothing existed in the whole universe, save for him and Lotor, and only one would walk away from this fight. The Prince was a worthy foe, strong and supple and light on his feet, and had developed a fine skill with his sword. Not as powerful as Akazia had been, but nothing like as insane. Fighting Akazia had been necessary, but unclean, a mercy killing undertaken for the betterment of the species. This was pure, pure as flames, pure as the hot air that fed them, and his warrior blood rejoiced at finally finding his match.

Lotor seemed to feel the same way, showing him the fierce golden eyes and the warrior's grin, every clash of their blades seeming to inspire him to new heights of effort. Honoring each other with their skill, they continued even when a blue bolt of energy blazed briefly above their heads. It did not land near them, and therefore did not matter. Dimly, they registered that the voice of the crowd had changed from cheers to cries of confusion, anger, and fear, but that mattered even less. What did get their attention at last was the nightmare scream that tore across the air like a chainsaw, and then something grabbed them both from behind, yanking them apart.

Tilwass had managed, by dint of main strength and sharp elbows, to force his way through the press of increasingly upset people; his checkered background had gifted him with the ability to spot a bounty hunter out of a whole group of shifty people, and there were suddenly a lot of them around right now. Moreover, he knew what a Ghamparva uniform looked like as well, and having just barely dodged a dead one falling from above—nice shot on the part of the blue Paladin there, he thought—was a clear indicator that he and the Prince should not be here. Shouts were rising from the crowd now, something about black-flag fighters, but he didn't care anymore. The only fighters important to him at the moment were still at it, fiddling around while the situation burned down around their ears, as his grandfather might have put it. A sudden movement on the far side of the square caught his attention at that point, and he recognized the other Paladins, the tall Altean with the mustache, a half-visible Galra woman, one of the big rent-a-carts, and a huge and veiled creature that chilled his blood just to see it. Tilwass was one of the relatively few people who had seen the archival images taken five hundred years ago by the ill-fated fleets that had gone to destroy the Hoshinthra homeworld, and he knew what he was looking at, veiled or no. Nobody else did, and that included the team of Ghamparva that burst out of the crowd toward the combatants, severely injuring several innocent bystanders that got in their way. It was at this point that Tilwass's suspicions were confirmed in the worst possible way; spotting its natural prey, the massive quadruped flung off its veils, and the mirror-scaled, skull-faced horror let out an unholy screech and charged.

The crowd panicked, all at once, and even the Prince and the Paladin looked up from their fight. Tilwass groaned, elbowed a frantic Parsoline out of his way, and went to retrieve his primary responsibility.

Across the square, Shiro acted simultaneously, charging forward as fast as he could go in the wake of the Hoshinthra's rush, ducking briefly as something small, luminous-green, and lethal hummed past his ear. The crowd was screaming now, either trying to escape or to fight back against the sudden influx of intruders, and the sounds of blaster fire began to punctuate the noise in sizzling barrages. Shiro was forced to duck and roll to avoid one hot purple bolt that would have put a big hole in him, and he let his momentum carry him to his target. Coming upright in a lunge next to the distracted combatants, he looked over his shoulder for more threats and shot a hand out at the proper height, gripping the collar of a shirt and feeling the soft brush of furlike hair across his knuckles. Giving the young fool a hard yank to get him moving, he caught a brief glimpse of a graying Galra just out of arm's reach, and ran as hard as he could back to the others. Strangely, they were just standing there, watching him in dismay.

“What are you doing?” he demanded, “I've got him, now run!”

“Wrong him, Shiro,” Hunk pointed out.

Shiro looked down, and saw a confused and irritated Galra prince dangling from his fist by the collar.

“Crap,” Shiro said. “Back in a minute.”

On the other side of the square, Tilwass had also realized his mistake, and was dragging a loudly-protesting red Paladin back to meet him, cursing himself for letting something as trivial as a sudden riot situation distract him. The local patrols were arriving now, and with the big crowd-dispersal water guns commonly used to break up events like this. He wondered vaguely how the Hoshinthra would react to those, assuming that it even bothered to stop murdering Ghamparva long enough to notice, and met up with the tall, somewhat harried-looking man that he'd seen once on the Center's arena posters. It didn't matter to him right now that he was standing face-to-face with the black Paladin; all that mattered was the swearing younger man being dragged bodily along by him.

“Trade you,” Tilwass panted, knowing that in any other situation, those two words would buy him a one-way trip to Haggar's lab, and not caring.

“Yeah,” the Paladin said, shoving the Prince forward. “All yours.”

Tilwass spared a moment to give the man a wry grin as he caught the spluttering Prince by the upper arm. “So, is your bone-headed dimwit as annoying as my bone-headed dimwit?”

The Paladin smiled in fellow-feeling, ignoring the outraged cry of “Tilwass!” that burst from his captive. “Yeah, probably,” he said, ignoring the blurted _“Shiro!”_ from the dark-haired youth. “Keith, sulk later, we've got to get back to the port, and now!”

“Short-stay port?” Tilwass asked.

“Right next to the warehouses,” Shiro replied.

Tilwass humphed thoughtfully and ducked as part of a bounty hunter flew over his head. “Truce, then? Better chance of making it there alive if we work together.”

Shiro stepped back, allowing a blaster bolt to sing harmlessly past his face. “Fine. Let's get going.”

“Tilwass...” Lotor growled threateningly, and was ignored.

Tilwass and Shiro shook on it, and then the graying officer turned and swatted Lotor hard across the rump. _“Move!”_ he roared in a drill-sergeant's bellow that had everybody taking off at top speed.

This time, when Shiro came charging back, everybody ran with him. By this time, the entire market had erupted into a general riot, complete with looting, arson, and knots of fighting as old scores were settled. Somewhere, a water cannon fired its load into the crowd, showering them briefly with cold water. All it did was make the crowd angrier.

“This way!” Zaianne shouted over the roar of the crowd, waving them down a narrow side alley. “Hurry—the Ghamparva know we're here and have taken steps. The main streets will be barricaded by now. We'll have to cut through the other markets to make any progress.”

“What are the Ghamparva doing here?” Keith panted, stretching his long legs to keep up with his mother. “This isn't really their scene, is it?”

Zaianne made a rude noise and vaulted over a toppled and burning hot-foods booth. “They run the black-flag markets, of course. What better place for them? The local gangs won't tolerate them in any of the other markets. I was coming to warn you when I saw you rather foolishly picking a fight with this idiot, here.”

Lotor glared at the Blade, catching hold of the shopping cart as Hunk heaved it around a sharp corner. “They sell pickled Galra parts there, woman! Would they really do that to their own kind?”

Zaianne signaled a halt, and they scrambled to a stop so that a team of riot police could rush past. She turned on the younger man, eyes burning. “Yes. Without hesitation. They do not leave witnesses. Now run, or I'll put you in a jar myself.”

Wisely, Lotor shut up and ran.

“Couldn't just call us?” Hunk puffed, steering the cart around another corner and bowling over a hooded figure that tried to block their way.

“Passive sensors,” Zaianne replied, pulling a small handgun out of one pocket and firing at something on the roof above them. “They'd have picked up my signal instantly.”

Shiro grunted sourly and punched someone who tried to grab him from a side alley. “So, of course, I drew them right to us. Great. Sorry.”

Tilwass leaped up one wall to grab the arm of someone taking aim at them from a small window above them. There was a scream, a crash, and when Tilwass had caught up with them again, he was armed with a rather nice marksman's weapon. “Hey, we all make mistakes,” he puffed grimly. “At least the Hoshinthra went after the Ghamparva first, and welcome to 'em. It wasn't with you, was it?”

“They go where they please, when they please,” Allura said breathlessly, lashing out with her laser-whip at another side-alley lurker, who vanished with a cry of anguish. “We have no control over their movements at all. Look out!”

A group of dark-uniformed Galra had burst into the alley ahead of them, and charged them in grim silence. Hunk never even slowed down, although it didn't help. The enemy leaped high into the air, clearing the ballistic shopping cart with ease; unfortunately for them, Zaianne and the others were ready and waiting for them on the other side. It was an ugly little fight, brief and nasty. The memories of what Hunk and Lance had seen on their station were still very fresh in their minds, and their teammates would never forgive what had happened to the nearly two hundred victims that they had just finished bringing back from a living hell. Some things could not be forgiven, not ever, and there was no room in the Paladins' universe for those who committed such crimes. Even so, it was not pleasant work.

“I hate having to do that,” Lance complained as Hunk got the cart moving again. “I hate them, but we can't just leave them lying around. I just wish that there was a better way.”

Zaianne wiped her blade clean on a handy green flag that hung nearby. “We don't dare leave them alive behind us. Just remember some of your own history, Lance, particularly during the second World War, and what certain special-forces groups in certain nations were getting up to during the third. These are very much the same.”

“Punch your Nazis, Lance,” Keith quipped, his bayard gleaming brightly.

“That's my job,” Hunk shot back.

Coran grinned fiercely, helping Hunk get the cart up to speed. “It's traditional, even. Father used to tell me tales of the earlier teams, and said that every one of the yellow Paladins had a punch that the forces of evil soon learned to respect, and Gyrgan was no different. Why, I myself got to witness his handiwork once, when we were working our way through the dark and dreadful lair of the Richitrovaki Wing-Breakers. Used to be the official tools of oppression for the Pazzup-Borla Warlords, and a nastier bunch of bloodthirsty bastards you never did see! Why, Gyrgan was so angry about what was going on in that compound—and let me tell you, it wasn't board games and tiddlywinks they were playing—that he didn't bother to use his bayard. That big fellow's fists smashed a lot of exoskeletons that day, and they soon learned to fear him. Great times. What bit of the Ghamparva did you punch, Hunk?”

Hunk scowled and flattened another unwary bounty hunter with the cart. “Below the belt, and I'm not sorry.”

Coran merely nodded. “And serves him right. Zarkon used to do that, too, now and again, especially if he was up against someone bigger than he was. Why waste the lack-of-height advantage, after all? Here come more of them, by the way.”

Lotor stared at his strange companion in disbelief. Oh, he'd known that a second, older Altean had survived in cryo-storage along with the Princess, and he was fully aware that his father had once led a team of Paladins of his own, but he hadn't expected _this._ “What?” he blurted, even as more of the enemy dropped down from the nearby rooftops.

“Oh, my goodness, yes!” The mustachioed alien replied cheerfully as Keith bashed one between the eyes with the butt of his bayard; the Altean then grabbed the reeling Ghamparva and casually rammed his head through the nearest wall, confiscating the man's blaster as he did so. “What, did you think it was all heroic posturing and triumphal parades back in the old days? Global threats don't just melt away under the force of one's innate nobility, lad, you generally need something rather bigger than that, and there were days when even Voltron himself wasn't big enough. Nope, your father and the old team had to take their opportunities wherever and whenever they found them, and if that meant that some henchman or other had to wear special underwear until the swelling went down, then so be it. Come on, lad, you've got a sword, start using it. We aren't your honor guard, you know.”

Somewhat belatedly, Lotor engaged a snarling Ghamparva just as the man tried to slice his sword arm, and managed to hold him off until Tilwass could shoot him from behind. Lotor shook sweat out of his eyes—he was good, but the Ghamparva had been using tricks that he'd never even heard of before—to see one of the Paladins clambering up and into the shopping cart, craning his neck to see if there were any more foes above them.

“Any more coming, Lance?” Shiro asked.

“Yeah, but it looks like some of the local second-story guys don't like them much. They won't be able to hold them for long.” The tall young man's bayard reconfigured itself into a sniper's weapon, and he crouched down among the shopping bags, eyes and weapon pointed upwards. “Hunk, Coran, get this thing moving. The neighborhood gangs look pretty tough, but Ghamparva are something else.”

“Right,” Shiro said. “Zaianne, take point. Hunk, Coran, you're driving. Allura, you take right, I'll take left; Pidge, Keith, follow on and keep an eye on our guests. Think you can put up with that, Tilwass?”

The graying solder smiled grimly and checked the charge on his gun. “Fine with me. Prince?”

Lotor shared a fulminating glare with Keith, but knew he had no other choice. “Very well.”

“Good,” Shiro said. “Let's go!”

Zaianne sped forward, Coran and Hunk lumbered into a run, the cart's overloaded antigravs wheezing in protest. The rest of the group kept pace as well as they could in the narrow alley. Something occurred to Lotor then that he'd forgotten in the heat of battle. “Tilwass, where are our bags?”

“Tossed 'em into the cart with the rest,” Tilwass puffed, glancing over his shoulder for any more trouble. “I'm not going to run a gauntlet while lugging your hair stuff, sir. We'll sort it out if we survive this.”

There was a snicker from Pidge, and she grinned up at Lance. “Think he was born with it?”

“Nah,” Lance replied cryptically. “Maybelline.”

Lotor had no idea of what they were talking about, but he could tell when he was being insulted. Regrettably, he could not seek redress for his bruised honor at the moment, and set himself to studying his foes. Sooner or later, he would face the Paladins again across a battlefield, and the more he could discern about them now, the better a chance he had of winning later. He had already taken the measure of the young man running beside him and had found that he had improved considerably since their fight in that pirate's hideaway. He was shorter than Lotor was, and perhaps not quite as strong, but had skill and courage enough to make up for it. The green Paladin was already known and feared for her skill at technomancy; looking at the diminutive female, he could see that she would be just as dangerous opponent in a plain fight. He did not doubt that she would engage in below-the-belt fighting as well, and shifted position so that Tilwass was between him and her.

The blue Paladin's gun spoke in short, sharp bursts, and there were shouts of alarm from above. Tilwass humphed and fired a few shots upward at the ones that the Paladin had missed, with less luck. Lance was a marksman, Lotor observed, and a skilled one. _Damn,_ he thought sourly; being a swordsman himself, he had a natural dislike for snipers. Lotor cast his gaze over the two people pushing the cart. He'd already seen Coran push someone through a brick wall without much effort, and reflected that Alteans were remarkably tough. He would have to be careful there. The yellow Paladin... Lotor observed Hunk's massive build and heavy musculature, and noticed that he carried his weight with sureness and grace. Powerful, but lacking the clumsiness he often saw in the very large, and he had heard rumors that Hunk was a Technomage as well. Dangerous, very dangerous. That went double for the Champion, of course. The man was a classic example of conventional heroism, straight out of any number of heroic legends. Lotor frowned. Classic heroes had classic weaknesses, but were damned difficult to kill. As for the Altean princess...

Lotor felt a brief pang beneath his ribs and shuddered. She'd nearly disemboweled him with her thumbnails once, and he would rather not repeat the experience. The Galra woman up ahead--

There was a shout, and a brief flurry of activity, and Lotor was required to leap over a pair of crumpled bodies in dark uniforms. Zaianne had rather obviously had special-forces training, and was very likely a member of the legendary Blade of Marmora. There was also something hauntingly familiar about her, something that he couldn't quite place. Resolving to get a better look at the woman later, he turned his attention to the attacker that lunged out of a side alley at him.

A few minutes later, Zaianne signaled another halt, and they paused, gasping, while the Hoshinthra pursued a mixed group of screaming people past their alley. Another dangerous enemy that he would have to deal with at some point, Lotor knew, although he was not looking forward to it.

“We're almost there,” Zaianne said, peering around the corner suspiciously, “but it's not going to be easy. The safest route is the main avenue over there, but someone has blocked it off with a couple of overturned hover-trucks. We could do it if we abandoned the cart.”

“No way!” Pidge protested loudly. “I am not leaving my stuff behind, Zaianne, I need that to build the Baba Yaga, and a bunch of other things!”

“Not happening, Zaianne,” Hunk added firmly. “I've got things in here that the Castle needs, and if you try to separate Lance from his hair stuff, he'll throw a tantrum, and I really don't want to have to deal with that. What's our alternative?”

The Blade woman scowled at Lance, who saw her disapproval and raised her a truculent pout. She sighed and pointed off to the right. “The nice, wide street over there, that just happens to lead right through the middle of a black-flag market. Ghamparva territory.”

Keith shrugged. “They won't be expecting it, Mom.”

“They won't have to,” she replied darkly. “Ghamparva always build deathtraps into and around their bases, and those expect _everything.”_

Hunk growled. “I'm on it. I know what their stuff feels like now, believe me. Pidge, Keith, you clean it, I'll wreck it.”

“Good,” Shiro said. “Roster change. Lotor, Tilwass, help Coran push the cart. Hunk, Keith, Pidge, up front with Zaianne. Allura, with me—we'll guard the rear.”

“Why do I have to push this thing?” Lotor complained.

Tilwass planted a hand between his shoulderblades and shoved him forward, forcing him to grab the handle or land face-first on the pavement. “Because the team leader told you to,” Tilwass said bluntly, taking hold of the handle beside him. “We're strong, fast, and they don't trust us to watch their backs, and for good reason! This is as good a way to keep us out of trouble as I've ever seen, and lends us some protection as well. Remember what awaits us if we're caught, sir, and push with a will.”

Lance grinned and jerked a thumb at Tilwass. “I like this guy, he's smart. Can we keep him, Allura?”

Allura rolled her eyes. “Lance, we've already got four mice, a cow, two dragons, a steady stream of Blades, and your sewing machine. We don't need any more pets! I admit that the Prince might make a decent hostage, but we're in enough trouble already.”

“Guaranteed, m'Lady,” Tilwass agreed with an appreciative smile. “We've got a battlefleet that needs him to survive and a lot of enemies who really want him alive, if not for long. Everybody's out to get him now, and they'll fight you for him.”

“Stop helping them, Tilwass,” Lotor sighed, sheathing his sword and gripping the cart's handle.

Tilwass bared his teeth at him threateningly. “Do you want to spend the rest of your life in a cell? No? Good. Lead on, people.”

“You're a lucky lad, so you are,” Coran murmured in Lotor's ear, making him duck away in surprise. “A bright fellow like that under your command? Why, I can remember whole battalions of dispossessed royals who would have given anything for a subordinate of his caliber. Take good care of him, and he'll see you through. Ancients know that I had to perform that duty for old Alfor often enough.”

Lotor growled and heaved the cart into motion again. “And where is your king now?”

“Dead, of course.” Coran sobered, scowling at old memories. “He left me to look after his daughter, and then went off and got himself killed. Not a good career move, I'm afraid, but at that point he didn't have any other choice. None of them did, really. By the time that we'd figured out what had gone wrong, it was already too late.”

They had no more time or breath for talking after that. Zaianne led them at a blistering pace across the intersection and down the ominously empty street ahead. Unlike the other markets, all black-flag business was conducted behind closed doors; all of the buildings had been retrofitted with blast doors as well, and any windows had been either fitted with shields or bricked up. The facades were utterly bare of the mosaics that the yellow-market emporiums boasted, giving the street an ominous, monolithic appearance. Most of the buildings had what might have been attached garages or small storehouses, with large, heavily armored doors as well, and the group did not doubt that dreadful things lurked just behind them. And ahead of them, as it turned out. For all that the empty street seemed deserted, it was by no means untenanted. Keith, Pidge, and Hunk let out a simultaneous yell, and suddenly they were running down a neighborhood on fire. Scarlet-gold flames, tinted at the edges with violent purple, flashed over pavement and buildings, flared up walls and poles, whipping colorfully from the soot-colored pennants that hung from them. In the wake of those flames were flashes and small explosions from ground level to rooftop, like a truckload of small pyrotechnics set off all at once. Sections of pavement popped up an inch or two and got stuck, secret panels in the walls tried to open and jammed as the mechanisms failed; muffled thumps sounded underground and wires strung overhead sizzled and broke, sparks showering from the snapped-off ends. Zaianne jerked something small and dark out of her pocket and hurled it at one garage where a broad door was grinding open; there was a flash, a small explosion, and a shriek of fury. From his perch in the cart, Lance sent shot after shot into the armored doorways, slagging locks and sealing mechanisms.

It was a valiant effort, but there was only so much that they could do. They had only made it halfway down the street when a multitude of smallish, spidery things began to pour over fences and rooftoops behind them.

Lance took one look at that quasi-insectoid horde and shouted, “Oh, crud! Killbots, guys, thousands of them! _Run faster!”_

Lotor glanced over his shoulder and nearly fell. He'd heard rumors of such constructs before, but had thought them to be merely rumors. Lance turned, rested the barrel of his bayard on the rim of the cart between Lotor and Tilwass, and began firing rapid bursts at the oncoming monsters. Another of Zaianne's explosives arced overhead, landing just ahead of the killbots and exploding violently as they passed over it, sending fragments hurtling skyward, but it wasn't enough to do more than slow them down. Zaianne jinked right down a side street, then left down another, and then plunged into an alley that was barely wide enough for the cart. Obligingly, Lance turned and aimed his bayard at the walls, bringing down tons of masonry to block the alley. It wouldn't hold the killbots for long, but every second was precious now. He heard a muttered curse from up ahead, and then, if anything, the Blade woman ran even faster. A few seconds later, they burst out into a scene of chaos. This was a large market square in one of the red-flag areas, and it was barely large enough to contain the general melee raging within it. From what Lotor could see, it looked like open warfare, complete with doomsday weapon. Right in the middle of everything was the Hoshinthra, its mirrored scales splashed with a medley of circulatory fluids, jaws dripping scarlet as it slashed, kicked, bit, tail-whipped, and trampled anyone who got too close. Whirling around it was a swarm of fist-sized insects that glowed like marsh fires, and whoever those came in contact with fell and did not get up again. The local street gangs seemed to have rallied around the monster and were doing battle with both the Ghamparva and what were probably teams of bounty hunters. Up on the rooftops were more of the locals, firing into the crowd, throwing things, and otherwise cheering the combatants on.

Zaianne's face split into a feral grin that would no doubt haunt Lotor's dreams and barked a few short words. At her command, all of the Paladins dashed around to one side of the shopping cart, laid hold of the heavy thing, and then _pushed._ Coran let out an excited whoop as the cart slewed madly sideways through the close-packed ranks of Ghamparva, knocking them aside like tenpins, just as the killbots began to pour out of the alley. She lobbed one more grenade at the alley mouth and then put her shoulder to the cart along with everybody else, and bulldozed their way through the press until they had made it safely into another narrow passage. There was a thunderous detonation behind them, and a devastating, ear-piercing shriek that made the very air vibrate. A vast cascade of smashing sounds told them that every window in the square had succumbed to that sonic assault, and the cart's hoverpad popped and shorted out, making Lance yelp in protest when it hit the ground hard.

“I've got it, hold on a sec,” Hunk panted, putting sweating hands against the stricken machine. “What the heck was that?”

Shiro peered out of the alley, just as another one of those ghastly keening noises sounded again, making everybody grunt in pain and cover their ears. “The Hoshinthra. It doesn't like those killbot things, either. Most of them are down or broken, along with a lot of other things. Hunk, can you get the cart moving again?”

“Yeah, but not for long,” Hunk patted the side of the cart gently, as if apologizing to it for getting it into this mess. “It'll get us to the port, but you're gonna have to get out and run, Lance. Wow. That big guy doesn't stop at wineglasses, does he? It's pretty well fried this thing.”

“And my gun, too,” Tilwass said sourly, tossing the smoking firearm aside. “Anyone got a spare knife they'll trust me with?”

Keith stepped over to Shiro and unzipped his backpack, pulling out something long and heavy. “Here you are, but you have to give it back when you're done.”

Tilwass caught the knife Keith tossed him, and pulled the blade out of its sheath. “Best Kerogan steel. Good stuff. My uncle used to collect these, and made sure I knew how to use them.”

“Good,” Zaianne said, pulling her own dark blade back out of its scabbard. “Let's get moving.”

The cart wheezed painfully and lifted up off of the pavement, wobbled slightly, but steadied under Hunk's hand; without Lance weighing it down, they managed to get it back up to speed much more easily, and were soon heading off down the passage at a good clip. It was surprisingly empty, as was the street it led out onto, with only a few people visible, and most of those were either hurriedly closing down their booths or running away. Even so, nobody suggested slowing down, and it wasn't long before the spires and prows of docked spacecraft became visible over the rooftops.

“Almost there,” Keith called out, indicating the pale edge visible just above the buildings. “That's the port's blast barrier! We just need to find the nearest gate.”

The blast barrier was what made it possible for the city to crowd so closely around the starport. Built from unnumbered tons of megablast-grade duracrete, enormously thick, nearly a hundred feet high, and contoured on the inner side so that if a ship's core blew, the blast would be directed up, rather than out; the tremendous encircling wall was a mighty protector. It did have multiple gates to allow traffic to pass through, but those slammed shut at the merest sight of trouble. Unfortunately, they had done exactly that by the time that the group arrived.

“Damn,” Shiro said, sizing up a set of doors big enough to fly a cargo jet through. “Hunk?”

“Don't bother,” Zaianne said, approaching a particular section of wall and thumping the pommel of her blade on the smooth, pale surface. “Hepplans value ships, and these gates shut whenever there are uprisings in a nearby market. They also value access, and there is always a way in. Aha—here.”

She jammed the blade into what had seemed to be an area of featureless duracrete and popped loose a hidden panel, revealing a large orange button. A tap on that triggered unpleasant groaning noises within the wall itself, and then the gates began to slide ponderously forward, pushing out of their frames with the awesome authority of very large things on the move.

“We'll have thirty seconds to get through before they close again,” Zaianne said, backing carefully away. “The moment that we have enough room to get the cart through, do so.”

The reason for that became plain a moment later; there were actually four doors, two per side, and when closed, they filled the tunnel completely, leaving no open space within at all. Anything caught in there would be crushed to a pulp in seconds. There were, in fact, stains on the tunnel floor that suggested that such things had happened before, and they wasted no time in getting through. Even so, they had only just gotten past when the enormous sections slammed closed behind them. Having performed above and beyond their duty, the shopping cart's antigravs rightfully conked out for keeps, dropping the heavy bin to the pavement with a thud.

“It's toast, guys,” Hunk said sadly, saluting the fallen soldier. “Might as well split up here. Um. Okay, whose stuff is whose?”

“It isn't over yet,” Zaianne said, the tension in her voice making them look up in alarm. “They were waiting for us.”

Sure enough, a large group of Ghamparva had appeared among the nearest row of parked landers and were approaching with the firm tread of the supremely confident. They stopped a safe distance away, and one of them, a huge and evil-looking Golrazi, stepped forward with a grim smile and a nod in the Prince's direction. “Prince Lotor,” he said in a deep, dangerous voice, “your recent exploits have gained you a certain amount of notoriety. Your father wishes to discuss this with you at length. Our own commanders have one or two things to speak with you about as well; thirty stolen fighting craft, for example. Lady Inzera Ghurap'Han was very explicit about your actions that day.”

Lotor drew himself up defiantly, sizing up this new foe. “I have nothing to say to her, to my father, or to your commanders.”

“Oh, I'm sure you'll find something.” The Ghamparva's eyes flicked over the others, lingering upon Zaianne for a moment. “You keep peculiar company today, your Highness. Your father will be very interested to hear just why you seem to have been assisting the Paladins... and a known agent of the Blade of Marmora.”

Pidge rolled her eyes. “Because we were all shopping. Everybody shops, even secret agents and derpy princes. Then him and Keith decided to settle a score, and then you creeps crashed the party, and then a Hoshinthra wanted lunch, and then the crowd went wild. We sort of had to run or die. There. Question answered, can we just skip the gloating and get to the boss battle already?”

Hunk chortled, pulling out his bayard. “Nice one, Pidge.”

The Ghamparva glared at him. “We would also like to speak with you, Paladins. What happened to that starbase?”

Lance grimaced. “Hoshinthra again. They follow us around like little puppies, only a whole lot bigger and people-eating-er. People-eating-y? Whatever. You're crunchy on the outside with a soft chewy center, dude, and they like the way you taste. Got me why. You guys've got some seriously bad habits. All that torturing and murdering? Huge turn-off.”

The Ghamparva was about to deliver a snide reply, but a silvery flicker in the air distracted him. His hand moved like lightning and caught Tilwass's borrowed knife inches before it would have buried itself in his skull. He had no time to do anything else, for Lotor was upon him in a flash, sword lashing out in an attempt to finish what Tilwass had started. The Ghamparva blocked his sword with the shorter but sturdy knife, and thrust him away with a powerful heave of one arm. Undeterred, Lotor attacked again, his heart a burning knot of outrage and fury. He had known that his father was displeased with him, and these creatures as well, but until this moment it had not entirely sunk in. Zarkon had been too distant an authority figure, and Lotor's own status had been too high to register the Ghamparva as anything more than his father's favored garbagemen. He owed Tilwass an apology, a distant part of his mind mused as he tried to find a way through his foe's defenses, and resolved to pay particular attention in the future to the Ghamparva's destruction. He was more or less aware that the others were fighting as well, but had no time to pay attention to anything but his own enemy. The huge Golrazi was terrifyingly fast and enormously strong, and fought with a cold detachment that raised the hairs on the nape of Lotor's neck. The fight might have gone either way, except that they were interrupted. Something heavy impacted Lotor from the side, bearing him down onto the pavement. He might have protested, save that a dark shape flew over his head a second later; there was a sudden, half-seen flurry of strikes, a gurgling groan, and a thud.

“Sorry 'bout that, sir,” Tilwass said breathlessly in his ear, “but the Lady knew that one, and you were in the way. Besides, he had her boy's knife.”

Lotor sat up and had to stifle the urge to cringe. The Blade woman was standing over the crumpled form of the big Golrazi, a look of terrible satisfaction upon her face, and she spat in the man's unresponsive eye with perfect aim. She loomed fearsomely, and her eyes burned with vengeance.

“Up,” she snapped, kicking the knife in Tilwass's direction. “We need to help the others.”

Tilwass caught the knife easily and heaved himself to his feet. “You sure about that?”

Lotor rolled upright and stared. Coran had taken refuge behind the shopping cart and was taking potshots with a stolen handgun, but he might as well not have bothered. The Paladins were working together with a seamless efficiency that he had never seen before, as if they were one mind with six bodies. They fought grimly, silently, against the remaining Ghamparva, each one compensating for each others' blind spots, and the Ghamparva were breaking like waves against their total cohesion. They had fought like this against him, once, but with nowhere near as much skill.

“How are they doing that?” he whispered, not even looking around when Tilwass pressed his sword into his hand. “Is that an effect of the Lions?”

Zaianne smiled proudly. “You could say that. The Lions demand much, but they give a great deal in return. This is part of it.”

Tilwass grunted in amused admiration and checked the edge of the knife. “Another old tale proven true. Fine, let's see about easing the load on them, though. The sooner we're off this planet, the better.”

Zaianne nodded and shook out her sword arm. “I agree.”

_The Pack Is As One._

Those five words were all it had taken to get them moving in tandem, spoken in a low but clear voice that had reached every ear. Who had said it, they weren't sure; it might even have been spoken by the Lions themselves, but that didn't matter. Those words had resonated with something within them the very first time Lizenne had spoken them, and they still stood at the core of their training. Shiro was not entirely at ease with the idea, smacking as it did of psychological programming, but by damn, it _worked._ That phrase opened up the Lion-bond in them like a key in a lock, allowing them to link up in an instant. Worry him it might, but it made things so very clear at times, and what they were doing now was just another example of that. In its way, this fight was no different from any of the battles they had fought in the Lions, and in fact was remarkably similar to fighting Lotor's Ghamparva ships. Difficult, but not impossible once you had the measure of them. Shiro paid careful attention as he engaged a fellow swordsman, translating every blow and dodge in his mind into fighter-craft maneuvers, and committing the lesson to memory.

It wasn't perfect, of course, and their enemies were skilled. He saw Keith being knocked to the ground by a solid punch from his foe; before he could move to help, Lotor dashed in and ran the Ghamparva through. Keith rolled to his feet, nodded thanks to their uneasy ally, and stood back-to back with him to fend off two more. Shiro feinted, parried, and dealt with his foe with a single, economical thrust to the heart, and looked around for more trouble. One of the Ghamparva might have made it through to menace Coran, but this time Tilwass didn't miss when he threw Keith's knife, and Zaianne ghosted past to remove a Galra who was giving Pidge some trouble. _Allies_ , the black Lion whispered into that strange, calm abstraction that the Lion-bond had brought Shiro. _It is good to have allies. It is good when all come together as one._

Shiro smiled faintly, reflecting that the Lion had a certain bias on that subject, but couldn't argue. In this state, he could smell the evil on these Galra, different but not dissimilar to the reek that wafted off of the Druids, and knew that this was what both he and the Lions were for. To rid the universe of monsters like these, that looked just like ordinary people, but were destroyers inside. Firm in his purpose, Shiro soldiered on, and the enemy fell before him.

Smooth as silk, he swept into a defensive position shoulder-to-shoulders with Keith and Allura when an enemy got in a lucky strike, throwing a knife into Hunk's upper arm. Lance responded immediately as well, pulling out the small blade, flushing the wound and sealing it even as his bayard barked out the shots that removed the larger problem. Pidge took out another more or less simultaneously, the stink of charred fur filling the air.

And then it was over. Shiro shuddered as the battle-trance left him, thirsty and sore and tired, but the enemy had been roundly defeated. He felt faintly sick at that; this had been far too much like the arena, and it took some effort to get his nerves under control. He wasn't the only one, it seemed—there was a muttered diatribe from Pidge that he knew better than to listen too closely to, and a groan from Hunk that was far more important. “Status?” he asked hoarsely.

“It hurts, but I've got it,” Lance growled angrily. “That creep tried to cripple Hunk's pancake-flipping arm, Shiro. Hunk promised me pancakes, and pancakes are important!”

Shiro turned to have a look at his teammates. Hunk's sleeve was dripping scarlet and the young man was a little pale, but he had the strength to scowl and poke at his friend. “Is that all I'm worth to you? Pancakes?”

Lance shoved his bayard back into his pocket and gave Hunk a one-armed hug, keeping his hand firmly over the wound. “Buddy! Of course not! There's also those fried noodles, the lelosha wraps, morlaberry cake, yulpadi stew--”

“Dude,” Hunk said disapprovingly.

“--and the best teddy-bear hugs in the universe,” Lance finished. “Saved the best for last, see? There, all done. You're lucky, pal, he nearly hit the big tendon in the shoulder.”

“Thanks, Lance,” Hunk said, rolling the shoulder experimentally. “Is everybody else okay?”

“A few bruises, but I'm all right,” Keith said, eyeing a scraped elbow from where he'd hit the ground, and then looked around at the mess they had made. “Ugh.”

“I want a bath,” Pidge grumped, wiping at sweat-smeared makeup; she was pale under the paint as she gazed around at the dead. “I really hate having to do this sort of thing, even if it's Ghamparva. I need to write the Market Bosses a nasty letter about letting these jerks move in here. I will leave them a bad review on Yelp!”

“Nothing worse than a torn shirt, Lance,” Allura said disgustedly, trying to tug the loose ends together over her midriff, although she was a little pale as well, and was avoiding looking at anything but her damaged garment. “Shiro?”

Shiro took stock of himself, and found himself largely intact. More importantly, his new backpack looked to be untouched, and the contents still inside it were safe. “Just a few scratches. Coran?”

“Perfectly unscathed, thank you for asking!” Coran said cheerfully, waving at them from behind the cart. “Madame, how are you and those two fellows doing?”

Zaianne straightened up from making sure of a few of the corpses. “I will join Pidge in the bath, I think, and I may add a few paragraphs to her bad review as well. Tilwass? Lotor?”

Tilwass sighed. “A tub full of hot water sounds wonderful, m'Lady, and it's a shame that my quarters don't have one. Here's your knife back, Keith, and thanks for the use of it.”

Keith took it back with a nod of thanks. “You're welcome, and thanks for the help. How 'bout you, Prince?”

Lotor looked tired and grouchy, and he glared at Tilwass before turning his angry topaz gaze upon them. “Do not think that this means that we are friends now, Paladins. This little truce is over.”

“Yeah, sure, fine, we get it,” Hunk said indifferently. “We've lived to fight another day, now we can go be deadly enemies again, big deal, yadda-yadda. Now come and get your stuff out of the cart, okay? It's been real, but I want a bath, too.”

Lotor stared at him, and then cast an incredulous look at Zaianne. “Are they always like this?”

“You should see them after a space battle,” Zaianne replied, shooing him toward the cart.

The others had already clustered around the cart and were trying to sort out the contents. Most of it seemed to be large bags of tools and parts, but not all of it, and Lotor couldn't help but to stare at the ridiculous hat that the blue Paladin pulled out and put on. Pidge cried out in triumph when she retrieved a large and colorful graphic novel, Allura breathed a sigh of relief to find several pastel-colored bags intact, if slightly sat-upon. Shiro pulled out a few bags, frowned at the contents, and passed them to Tilwass. “Yours?”

Tilwass had a brief look inside, and nodded. “Yup. The Prince here had a couple as well; blue bag with a splashy red logo, and a pink one from that hair-stuff booth. Is that orange knit hat in there anywhere? It's mine.”

Pidge sorted through the various items, but came up empty. “Nope, sorry, I don't see it. Here's the blue bag and... Lance, you had two pink ones, not three. Come on, fork over.”

Lance scowled at her from under the brim of his space sombrero. “I can't tell which of these two is mine. We each got four bottles of the hair stuff--” he and Lotor eyed each other's hair for a moment, platinum blonde and mocha being exotic colors among each other's cultures, “--and... hey, what's this? Special conditioner?”

“Extreme measures,” Lotor sighed, taking the bottle from him. “My hair becomes unmanageable in humid weather, and a drop of this will tame it. Your friend there might think of getting some later on.”

Keith, whose hair was indeed a mess at the moment, glowered at him.

Hunk chortled. “Could be worse, Keith. I knew a girl once who got Medusa hair whenever we had a sticky day. Anybody walking too close to her risked being strangled. You know, it's funny, but you and Lotor look a lot alike, especially when you get all frowny.”

The two young men's eyes flashed to each other's faces; Keith had indeed matured of late, and the Galran cast to his features was very plain now. Zaianne smiled wryly. “They should, actually. My second cousin happens to be Lotor's mother. My Matriarch had initially chosen me to be offered up as Zarkon's Consort, but Thace and I ran away before it could happen. Come on, boys, don't stare at me like that, your eyeballs will pop out and roll down the street, and we've no time to chase after them. You didn't tell them, Coran?”

Coran hefted his own bags with a shrug. “Didn't seem proper, and you must admit that it's not my story to tell. Not that it didn't happen occasionally, of course. Alfor and his team did have to fight a rogue nephew of Zarkon's, once, and Alfor himself had a whole crowd of sinister distant cousins that were forever trying to make trouble. The team prior to theirs once spent the best part of two decaphebes hunting down one of the yellow Paladin's nefarious brothers, and the drama that that caused spawned a whole slew of bad cinema. Now, now, boys, we don't have time for tantrums. Say goodbye to your embarrassing relative, and remember that while you might have to battle nobly against each other, you don't actually have to finish each other off. Makes for a better plot that way, anyway, and opens up all sorts of possibilities for dramatic comebacks and redemption arcs. Toodle-oo.”

Lotor scowled at Keith. _“Ghathri.”_

“Smurfette,” Keith shot back with a matching scowl. “We'll kick your fuzzy blue ass next time.”

Lotor sneered and picked up his bags. “And I will have the Lions, and a total victory. Tilwass, we are leaving.”

Tilwass, who had been trying not to laugh, grinned broadly. “Yessir. See you all later.”

“'Bye,” Lance said, waving. “Sorry about the being-mortal-enemies thing.”

Tilwass shrugged as Lotor strode stiffly past him. “It happens. Later.”

Lotor humphed irritably, and cast a sidelong look at his lieutenant. “We will speak of this, when we are back on the ship, Tilwass.”

The older man patted his shoulder, but his voice was hard when he replied. “You're alive, free, and still have your hair stuff, sir. Be glad that all we lost was my hat and your dignity. Come on, Dhak's waiting for us.”

Lotor rolled his eyes, but picked up the pace. He had learned much this day, and needed to adjust his plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I say this a ton, but a huge THANK YOU to everyone who comments and leaves kudos. The support and encouragement are everything to us, especially right now when I personally need the reminder that there's people nicer and smarter than the idiot who refused to wear a mask in the store because he said that required masks "isn't a law, it's an edict, and I don't follow edicts".
> 
> (I have never wanted to beat someone to death with my sanitizer spray bottle so bad in my life...)
> 
> ANYWAY! Love you all, stay safe, stay healthy, and we'll see you next chapter!


	32. Special Deliveries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *flings a chapter at everyone and runs away*

Chapter 32: Special Deliveries

The Paladins wasted no time in getting back to Bantax's shuttle, and found that its pilot had been busy as well; ugly scarlet streaks striped the pavement where bodies had fallen and been dragged away, and Bantax himself looked a bit the worse for wear. He glanced up from sharpening his sword when they approached, and smiled grimly. “Ghamparva,” he said by way of explanation, “and a few other opportunists, which they took care of for me themselves. Most of them headed away as soon as they saw the gate opening, but left a few to mind my ship, and one other lander. They're not a problem, now.”

“Thank you,” Shiro said, “we took care of the rest. We'll need to leave before reinforcements arrive.”

Wordlessly, Bantax opened the hatch, and they all piled in with a deep sense of relief, glad to leave this world behind them. Keith watched Thek-Audha recede into the distance, and then scratched his nose thoughtfully. “Hey, Mom?”

“Yes?” Zaianne asked.

“One of the people we met down there was a really feathery blue alien with a big black eye on top of his head. He called me and Shiro... uh... kapokimmy bansha, and something about it really upset him. Do you know what that was all about?”

Zaianne shook her head, but Coran snapped his fingers. “Extra fluffy? Had something to do with books? Wore a knotted-string garment?”

“That's him,” Shiro said, holding his backpack close against his side. “We got some reading material from him.”

Coran humphed. “That's not all you got, I expect. That was a Thracuffle lore-seller, if I'm any judge, and their specialty is getting the right information to the right people, at the right time, and they don't much like aetherically-able folks who might be able to steal a bit of lore that wasn't intended for 'em. Called those 'magi', and our kind and their kind didn't really get along, for obvious reasons. Those big third eyes can spot a practitioner clear across a crowded street, and any bit of Alchemy they've done, too.”

Pidge gave him a quizzical look. “Okay, so what's this kapokimmy stuff about?”

“I was just getting to that,” Coran admonished. _“K'pokimi-Bansha_ means 'Tools of the Trickster', which were sort of rogue agents of one of their more difficult gods, and the best way to deal with one of those was to give him whatever he wanted and to send him on his way as quickly as one could, lest he pull the fates of everyone around him into a whole shipload of finest distilled higglety-pigglety.”

Shiro and Keith stared at each other, and thought about the day's events, which had indeed involved a great deal of higglety-pigglety. Both of them broke out in rueful laughter.

Allura leaned back in her seat and crossed her arms over her bared midriff, which was a little chilly. “Honestly,” she scolded. “I can't take you anywhere, even into hives of scum and villainy.”

Keith was laughing too hard to fine her a geek point.

Elsewhere in the Universe, the _Chimera_ was undergoing the final phase of its preparations, that being the embarkation of its most important passenger, and Modhri had taken it upon himself to clear the way for her. One could say many things about the Blade of Marmora, Modhri mused as six bearers marched through the airlock in grave silence, bearing the heavy stasis pod on a litter between them, but one could never accuse them of disrespect for their own dead. Strictly speaking, Tzairona was none of theirs, but they had made her their own. The Blade had grown out of the Dyrchoram's legend, after all, and those who had worked aboard Jasca had come to love Tzairona as an honorary ancestress all the same. She had manifested for a few of them, he had been told, and had spoken words of wisdom that the wise had heeded, and had comforted nervous trainees and weary veterans alike with her unseen presence. Modhri was not at all surprised to see tears in the eyes of her bearers now, for she was leaving them, possibly forever. He bowed to them with all the respect due to a team of pallbearers and helped them get the pod secured in the lander's cargo section, and was not surprised when they lingered for a moment to gaze at the mummified face dimly visible within. She was still beautiful despite her desiccation, the strong bones of her face speaking of a powerful will and a wild heart, and they would miss her.

“We'll get this done as quickly as possible, and will ensure that no harm comes to the body,” Modhri assured them gently. “Lady Inzera might not want to keep her, since she has little use for the dead.”

“We know,” one of the Blades replied solemnly, reaching out to touch the pod. “Regardless of that, she has waited a very long time. Even if we are allowed to keep the body, her spirit may well decide to move on.”

“Surely, she shall take her place among the God's treasures,” one of the other Blades said in a low voice; he was an older man, scarred and beginning to go gray above the ears, but his pale eyes were no less damp than those of his companions. “We will inter her with all honors, if possible.”

There was an unspoken request there, and Modhri nodded. “I will do my best to see that it is. I very much doubt that Inzera will willingly grant her what she is due. Remember also that Lizenne will be with me, and she has neither love for nor loyalty to her former Matriarch.”

That seemed to satisfy the warriors. They bowed to him and turned to leave, the last one pausing to hand Modhri a disc-shaped object that was about the size of a dinner plate and perhaps three finger-widths thick.

“A new holo-projector,” the man told him, “the Green Paladin asked me to deliver this to you. It's mobile, and is capable of generating a very lifelike voice and image, and has enough range to allow Jasca to attend that meeting. She's looking forward to it, she says.”

Modhri turned the object in his hands, identified the switch that would activate it, and smiled at the neat construction of the thing. She was getting better at assembling self-contained devices, he noticed. Perhaps Hunk had been giving her lessons. “Thank her for me, if you would. I have the feeling that we'll need Jasca there with us, if only for her habit of laughing in the face of adversity. I sometimes wish that she wasn't the only one of her kind left.”

The Blade smiled. “She might not be. We have not found all of the old Dyrchoram caches yet, and one might still hold a file of her brethren. I'm told that the Dyrchoram treasured their brave and opinionated AI's. Perhaps...”

Modhri chuckled. “We can hope. Are we all in readiness?”

The Blade nodded. “The Hoshinthra are attacking three factory worlds not far from Core World space, and the local Garrisons have been pulled out of position to fight them. Transport ships and fighting craft stand ready to bear your family away safely. Jasca herself will provide cover that no other craft can produce. Even if Lady Inzera tries something unwise, it will cost her.”

“It will cost her dearly no matter what,” Modhri said in a hard tone that startled the Blade; Modhri only very rarely showed temper. “I doubt very much that her peers will permit her to keep her rank after this, and it will put the House in great difficulty. Ghurap'Han does not produce. It buys, sells, and administers. Without us to do their dirty work for them, the House is all but powerless.”

“And Ghurap'Han has rivals. We're aware.” The Blade cast Modhri an interested look. “Is your wife having misgivings about this?”

“A few, but not many,” Modhri replied, and he shook his head in mild amazement. “Lizenne broke with them completely over a decade ago, which might tell you something about them. She loved her father, but he died before she left. She still remembers her Aunt Korial with fondness, and a few of her uncles and brothers, and is a bit worried for whatever young cubs there might be. She will not speak of any of the others, not even her mother or brothers, and has not contacted them in years. There are over a thousand members of her Lineage living today, and she cares for less than twenty of them. Were you able to get her message passed along?”

The Blade nodded. “Yes. I did that myself, and made sure that it was received. Why would she ask for such things?”

“For the fulfillment of a promise to another woman who has lost her home and her kin,” Modhri replied, “it is a way of returning a part of what was stolen, and the Princess dearly needs that piece of her world to comfort her, however small.”

“Ah,” the Blade said, and turned to leave. “Good luck, then, and may your foremother's spirit give us all courage.”

Modhri watched him go, and let out a long breath. “I hope so. There are many promises that must be kept this day.”

He stood there in silence for a little time, eyes hooded, breathing lightly, and his mind held intentionally blank. This was a trick that he'd taught himself many years ago, well before Lizenne had planted the ward in him, and it still worked despite that aetheric barrier. He had always been exquisitely sensitive to the emotional atmosphere of any given location, and could detect the general mood of groups of people, or even single individuals in this way. Indeed, his own brothers had once accused him of being able to smell trouble coming, and they weren't far from the truth. He could still feel the lingering sorrow of the Blades who had borne his ancestress here, but there was an air of intense concentration hanging about the stasis pod that felt like a thunderstorm building. Tzairona was readying herself for a major effort, and he wondered just what she had foreseen. He knew better than to ask, of course, and ventured back up to the _Chimera's_ bridge, the screens showing Jasca's great bicone-shaped hull floating a polite distance away. Lizenne was sitting in the pilot's seat, watching the view with a pensive expression. She, too, had an air of gathering forces around her, and he slipped into the copilot's seat in respectful silence.

Eventually, she sighed and rubbed at her eyes. She hadn't been sleeping well for the past few days. “Are we ready?” she asked after a long moment.

“Tzairona is,” Modhri replied, laying a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I'm not so sure about myself, or you, for that matter.”

Lizenne puffed a faint laugh. “It needs to be done, regardless of our own feelings. Taking your family away from the Empire will cripple the Ghamparva until they can find another source of hyper-advanced starcraft. Without Nelargo Shipyard in operation, that region of space will lose a major source of conventional warships, as well as courier and even civilian craft. They'd branched out a bit, you know.”

“I hadn't,” Modhri said, a little surprised. “What are they building? I can't see Inzera lowering the Lineage's name by producing passenger shuttles and ore scows.”

Lizenne smiled and patted his hand. “Luxury yachts, of course, reconnaissance ships, exploratory ships, and even a few classes of orbital racers. Very respectable, very profitable.”

Modhri vented a sour grunt. “And, no doubt, useful for employing those cousins of mine who are not quite adept enough to work on military or special-forces craft. You are worried about your own kin, aren't you?”

Lizenne nodded. “I can't help it. For all that the vast majority of them are useless layabouts with entitlement issues, for all that they tried to turn me into a political gamepiece and a bargaining chip, for all that my own mother tried to set me on a path that would have resulted in my becoming a Druid, they are—were—of my Pack. Even though I grew up watching my family abuse yours, I cannot help but worry. I am very much a creature of instinct, and mine are telling me that the Pack of my birth is in deadly danger. There is a small chance that this could doom Ghurap'Han to extinction.”

Modhri sobered. “I know. Will you do it anyway?”

“I must.” Lizenne regarded Jasca's hull for a moment, watching the tiny transport craft returning to her shuttle bay. “The Hoshinthra and the dragons have said that it was necessary, and Loliqua as well.”

“Loliqua?” Modhri asked, very surprised.

Lizenne nodded grimly. “The first time we met, she and I talked privately while you and the others were playing in her garden. She had a Vision, Modhri. The Coalition needs your family very much, but the future of my House is now very uncertain. The Lineage will survive, although severely reduced in stature. There were hints that loss of life was possible. Those sensible enough to remove themselves from immediate danger will certainly have to learn to work for a living. It will be hard for them, no matter what, and while I know that it is richly deserved--”

Modhri touched her lips with a fingertip. “They'll manage. Your House survived the Sisterhood War, remember, and the chaos caused by Prince Rhonorath's assassination, and the mess that surrounded Zarkon's ascension to the Throne. They'll survive this. Personally, I would love to see some of your snooty uncles and haughty cousins waiting tables and scrubbing floors for a living. At least they might expect to be paid for their honest labor.”

Lizenne snorted a laugh. “I'd like to see that for myself, actually. Remember that fat dandy, my second cousin Threnaxis, whose sole talent lies in drinking other people's wine?”

Modhri smiled evilly. “Oh, yes. And his love for high fashion and idle luxury, and his open disdain for any profession that might bring him into contact with dirt. He'd make a lovely janitor, wouldn't he? A municipal janitor, charged with cleaning out public toilets.”

Lizenne cackled, a sound that never failed to lift Modhri's spirits. “A lesson long overdue. I still feel bad for the cubs whose circumstances will be so dramatically changed. The future is not certain, but my aunts and uncles are not complete idiots. They should be able to weather this upset fairly well, so long as they don't panic. Jasca, dear, are you ready?”

“ _Any time, Lizenne,”_ Jasca's slightly tinny voice replied cheerfully. _“Let's get going. It's been ten milennia since I've seen the Homeworld, and I'm interested in seeing how much it's changed since then.”_

Lizenne gripped the control yoke. “Good enough. Follow me, then, and let us all go home.”

Meanwhile, some considerable distance away, Allura had decided that it was time to get back to work. Lizenne had told her right before they had left not to expect her or Modhri to arrive at the agreed-upon rendezvous point for at least a couple of days, and Allura felt that this was time enough for a necessary adventure. And with good reason; Yantilee had not been at all surprised to hear that the Ghamparva's treasures had included certain extremely important items, and Tchak, surprisingly, had been just as adamant as Lance about repatriating a particular gem. The Stone of Mist, it seemed, had considerable significance to his people as well, and Yantilee was willing to let him have his way. He had even come along with several other captains to help liberate that particular planet, and was guiding the Castle there by circuitous means. Unfortunately, that meant that it was taking rather longer than Lance liked.

“Are we there yet?” Lance asked.

Allura flashed him a dirty look. “Not quite. Tchak, what can you tell us about this world?”

“ _A fair amount,”_ Tchak replied cheerfully; Poboio had fallen within his preferred territory during his days as an independent pirate captain, and he was perfectly happy to see it being bumped up on the liberation list. _“Poboio used to be one of my world's allies before the Empire showed up. Nice people, peaceful civilization, very big on agriculture. They used to rely on my people to keep the nastier races from raiding them, and we did that in return for favorable trade status. Never cheated them either, I'm proud to say. Aha—there's the planet now.”_

The Poboion System was another binary, with broad, interconnecting asteroid belts and numerous rocky planets, far more than the Earthly System could boast. Numerous Empire-owned mining rigs had been positioned in the best parts, but most of the local garrison was parked in orbit near a sizable bluish planet with three smaller moons. It was more or less Earthlike, although the single, enormous ocean had a definite violet tint and the single supercontinent and most of the larger islands were brown and streaked with reds and oranges instead of green. Strangely, there were very few clouds visible, and all of those were over the ocean.

“ _Used to be a nice healthy scarlet from one side of the big landmass to the other,”_ Tchak continued, _“But about seven or eight years ago, there was some sort of disaster that demoralized the whole population, and then everything started to dry out. The rains just stopped getting through into the inland regions and most of the springs stopped flowing, just like that! Not that the Galra care—what they want is under the ground. Poboio has huge veins of a very unusual sort of quartz, diamond-clear, super strong, and perfect for making focusing elements for lasers. All the way down to the little micro-lasers they use in laboratories, all the way up to warship cannons. Popular in jewelry and light fixtures, too. Not having forests or farms in the way just makes mining easier, and there are all these unemployed foresters and farmers hanging around, so...”_

“That stops,” Shiro said firmly.

“ _Happy to hear that, Shiro,”_ Tchak said. _“Give us a little time to get into position, and we can ruin those_ tharektas' _whole day. Just remember, if something goes wrong, we've got Hoshinthra everywhere right now, and they'll be happy to help out.”_

Shiro shook his head grimly. He had studied the Hoshinthran representative aboard the _Quandary ,_ the Warrior who had brought them their cow, and the one that had accompanied them through Thek-Audha's markets, and didn't particularly relish the thought of watching a team of either of those in action. He had grown up in a culture that revered swords and sword-masters, and his time in the military had made him both comfortable and competent in the use of firearms. There were... rules, he supposed one could call them, and traditions that separated true soldiers from insane killers. Hoshinthra were neither sword nor rifle; they were galloping chainsaws with an unending thirst for blood. He did not know their rules, or whether they even had any, and they made him nervous.

“I'd rather not impose upon them, Tchak,” he replied. “They've got their own schedule to keep, and I think that we'll probably be able to handle this one ourselves. The dragons decided to stay with us while Lizenne and Modhri were out, and they and the mice can mind the ship if Zaianne and Coran want to help us clear the bases.”

Allura giggled, and Coran cast Shiro a grin over his shoulder. Tchak rolled his green eyes heavenward and muttered, _“Oh, gods, the mice. I've heard stories about what those little monsters are capable of, and I'm still not sure that I believe them.”_

“You might as well, Captain,” Lance said with a grin. “They're all true, and they weren't even the strangest things that have been happening. If we're lucky, we'll be able to get a whole lot more mice soon, too. Yantilee's still got Arax and Sarge aboard, right? He took them home with him after that meeting we had, a few days before we hit Thek-Audha.”

“ _Yeah, and the place is still reeling from that,”_ Tchak shook his head wonderingly. _“Last I looked, yes. It's sort of weird, really. We were used to Ronok and Simadhi are different from the rest of the race anyway, Tamzet's a good kid, and the Blades... well, they're Blades. We weren't expecting civilized behavior out of the common soldiery, but those two just sort of gravitated to the clinic and the fighter deck and have fit right in. Yantilee's got some of her best men watching them, naturally, but they're behaving themselves.”_ Tchak paused and looked around at a comment from one of his deck crew, and gestured an affirmative. _“All right, Dablinnit, Grank-Phar, Lothi, and Trag... whoops, and Kssshraoca-Lady-of-the-Long-Fangs—where'd she come from?—say that they're ready to go. Hop into those big robot cats of yours and distract those ships for us.”_

Shiro frowned, glancing up at the Hoshinthra craft that had appeared out of nowhere in the corner of one screen. It was one of the middling-sized ones, somewhat smaller than Shussshorim was, and built for fast strikes rather than pitched battles. _Good enough,_ Shiro thought, and then cocked a questioning look at Allura. “Will you want to take the Lion this time? I got the Robeast battle.”

Allura perked up instantly. “Definitely. Will you want to ride along?”

Shiro shook his head. “Not this time. I have a feeling that I'll be needed up here.”

“Very well,” Allura said, hopping down from the pilot's dais. “I'll need the bayard back, then.”

Shiro's hand went to the pocket in which he carried the black bayard almost without his conscious bidding. It was hard for him to give it up—even to think of giving it up—but he did so anyway, and indulged himself in one small thing as he did so.

Allura laughed to see it. “Shiro! There's no need to pout like that. I will give it back, you know.”

He grinned at her, hearing the Lion purr in the back of his mind. “Yes, and you'll pout about it as well. I'm looking forward to seeing it. Good luck out there.”

She blew him a kiss and descended the chute even as Lance ran for his own Lion's hangar. Shiro heaved a long, envious sigh and asked Coran to contact the mice and dragons, wondering absently what it said about him that he now looked upon this sort of arrangement as more or less normal. Tilla licked his ear before sitting down next to the console, which didn't help all that much. Coran, of course, seemed perfectly sanguine about having his post manned by a quartet of small squeaky rodents and an enormous reptiloid.

“Not going to join the others?” Shiro asked him.

“Not quite yet,” Coran said, patting Chuchule's head gently while keeping an eye on the screens. “I've never really been all that good in orbital battles if I'm not sitting in this thing. I can get a fighter craft to run and dodge and cut capers like a champ, but I was never quite up to the mark when the shooting started. No, I much prefer piloting a big ship, to be absolutely honest; preferably something big and hardy enough that it doesn't need to dodge all that much, and can do all the aiming for me.”

Shiro had known the captain of an aircraft carrier back on Earth, and understood the sentiment. “Makes sense.”

“Quite,” Coran replied, making a small adjustment and glancing up at Soluk, who had already positioned his forequarters beneath the Balmeran crystal that hung above the pilot's dais. “I'll probably want in on the fun when it's time to bust up the planetary installations, of course. Haven't raided a base in ages. That used to be Alfor's favorite part, you know. Flying his Lion about was all right, but he was an expert swordsman and loved a good one-on-one fight with a foe of similar talent, and freeing prisoners and liberating oppressed populations always gave him that warm, fuzzy feeling inside. Me too, of course. The applause is really what makes it all worth it, you know?”

Shiro smiled, but shook his head; he'd always been far too privately-inclined a person to enjoy that much attention, and Coran's words rang uneasily off of the memory of a certain dream. A dream that had remained stubbornly clear in his memory, which Zaianne had told him was how you knew that the Visitation was a real one. “I'll take your word for it.”

Coran humphed. “Suit yourself. Ah—there go the Lions. Time to get to work. Are we ready, team?”

The mice squeaked courageously and the dragons sounded fearsome _gronk_ s, and so once again the Castle leaped forward into battle. Shiro settled himself down in one of the defense-drone stations and closed his eyes, opening his other sight to keep an eye on his team through the Lion-bond. Brightest and clearest was Allura's joy in piloting the Lion again, and he felt just a tiny pang of guilt at that. Given any chance at all, he knew, either of them would hog that oversized machine to themselves. He then had to shoot the black Lion the mental equivalent of a dirty look when he felt a faint but unmistakable pulse of smug self-satisfaction emanating from that great cat.

_Player,_ he thought sourly.

The Lion laughed at him and turned his attention to the job at hand. They had work to do.

Modhri stared uneasily at the view, watching the glimmering image of a world that he thought he had left behind forever grow larger in the screens. Galran Prime, once the center of the Empire, and the ancestral home of his people. In one of the side screens Jasca was visible, both as the modified comm station and as her avatar. She liked to portray herself as a Palabekan, dressed in the ancient uniform of the Dyrchoram, and he wondered absently if she had come up with the image herself or had modeled it on someone she'd known. Either way, it made speaking with her more like speaking with a flesh-and-blood person, and it was excellent cover for her own crew. The Blade of Marmora had welcomed her into their ranks with open arms, and he'd heard that there was at least one engineer among them who had fallen madly in love with her. A platonic arrangement, of course, although if Pidge and Hunk discovered deeper secrets in their talent sets... well, that didn't bear thinking on at the moment. He glanced at another side screen, one that showed their precious cargo lashed down in the lander, and reflected that he had far more pressing things to consider at the moment.

How would his Matriarch and his kin respond to this? He and his wife were about to do something that would turn their entire lives upside down, and despite the reassurances he'd been given, a breakaway of this magnitude was earthshaking. For ten thousand years they had served Ghurap'Han; habits that old and well-entrenched were hard to break, but Lizenne's Matriarch had been a thoroughgoing tyrant ever since she'd inherited the office from her own aunt. Had she been more like her predecessor, his relatives might have been reluctant to leave, but the last twenty-seven years or so had been very difficult for his kindred. Certainly every female relative he had would want out, particularly those with cubs. Many of his younger male relatives, chafing at the restrictions that Ghurap'Han had placed on their lives, would want to run free as well. The older ones, the worn-out elders in the retiree's house, those might not want to risk what little time they had left by leaving everything that they had ever known, nor would the ones who had made personal oaths to this or that member of the dominant Lineage. Would their oath-holders continue to protect them, he wondered, and would the Matriarch turn those elders out onto the street, freed of the responsibility and expense of their care and feeding?

A warm hand gripped his own, banishing his thoughts. “I can feel you worrying,” Lizenne said gently.

Modhri nodded. “Can you blame me? So much change all at once can be terrifying.”

She gave his hand a reassuring little squeeze. “Jasca and I have done some research. I don't think that you realize just how nasty Lady Inzera has been of late. They'll come, all right, even the most conservative of the elders, and that old harpy won't be able to hold them. Tzairona's Matriarch allowed, mostly as a gesture of mockery, the conditions of your Lineage's release to be drawn up into formal legal documentation and permanently saved into the House's archives. Nevertheless, they are legal and binding, even after so long.”

He sighed. “Will your Matriarch honor those rights?”

“She had better.” Lizenne scowled at the planet. “No few of your cousins were steered into legal practice, and if she tries anything, they'll relish the opportunity to bring her up short. High though my kin might stand in society, only the Emperor and his witch are truly above the law.”

Modhri nodded, relaxing slightly. “They may come under scrutiny, anyway. We have attracted the ire of the great, and you did come from that House. Our return there--”

“ _Won't be a bother to any but those who really deserve it,”_ Jasca's voice came clearly over the comms, and her avatar grinned at them from the side screen. _“The moment we came in out of hyperspace, I've been disguising our signatures. As far as the patrols and the port authorities know, you're still sitting in a Hanifor science ship, but one named the_ Raging Chinchilla, _and I'm a Palarnook trader with a full load of poiled slurgs. My boys have been making bad jokes about both all morning.”_

Lizenne lifted an eyebrow at the smirking AI, but smiled. “Remind me to give them a very thorough training run, when next it's time to brush up on their Druid-fighting skills. Are you able to access the Census of Houses, by the way? I wasn't able to get an accurate headcount.”

Jasca hummed thoughtfully. _“Yes. Khorex'Var's a respectable size for a minor House, all right; roughly six hundred and fifty living members in residence, if you count the unborn cubs. Sixteen expectant mothers, all told, and expecting large clutches. We'll be able to carry them all, don't worry about that, and the Nelargo crowd is dancing with impatience to make off with their best and latest work.”_

Modhri smiled. “They'll come. All you have to do is tell them where to go.”

“ _Actually, we can do better,”_ Jasca replied, _“Kolivan wasn't kidding about wanting some of your lot for his own, and Bantax has been authorized to run a recruiting program. He'll take whoever signs up to some of our more secret training bases. He's already got one of the faster transports hot and ready to ferry them away, in addition to the ones standing ready to take on the bulk of the House, and Clarence says that he'd be happy to board a portion of them himself. So would I, actually. Khorex'Var has a very good reputation for quality work, and the Coalition wants all of that. You've made a big impression on everyone you've met, and they definitely want more.”_

Modhri's eyebrows rose, and he gave the avatar the smile that he reserved for special occasions. “I thank you for that. It is good that we will be welcomed.”

Jasca gave him a girlish giggle and batted simulated eyelashes.  _“We love you, Uncle Modhri.”_

They were directed into a slot in an orbital docking ring by a bored spaceport official, assigned parking fees and made aware of the local regulations, and then were ignored. “My turn,” Lizenne murmured soberly, then tapped in a comm code that she hadn't used since she had run away from home. It hadn't been changed since then, and she was pleasantly surprised to find a familiar face on the other end. Unnok Khorex'Var had visibly aged, poor fellow; the Matriarch was hard on her personal underlings. _“You have reached the private office of the Lady Ghurap'Han. Please state your...”_ he said automatically, and then choked in surprise when he saw who was calling. _“Ye gods. Lizenne? Is that you?”_

She smiled sweetly at him. “It is indeed, Unnok, and I'm even prepared to be halfway civilized about it. Is the old harpy in, or will I have to drop ship through the roof to get her attention?”

Unnok gulped. _“She's in House today. Elcia will be giving birth soon, and Her Ladyship has great expectations for the cubs. But you should not be here! You are the Rogue Witch, and all the Empire has been turned against you! I should be calling the authorities right now, but... ye gods, Modhri? Modhri, you're dead!”_

Modhri nodded gravely at his cousin. “I was, or the next best thing to it. My wife had other ideas, however, and pulled me out of Kuphorosk's reach. We would not be here at the very heart of the Empire unless it was very important to be so. Unnok... I've found Tzairona. We're bringing her home.”

Unnok paled under his fur, swayed, and had to steady himself on his control board. _“Tzairona... Modhri, are you sure? Is it really her? Her Ladyship has been unbearable since that strike on Nelargo Shipyard, as if it were our fault! By all the gods, Modhri, she had poor Girosk beaten like a slave in front of all of us for letting the saboteurs get past him, never mind that the security department is run by her own grandson and did not come under Girosk's authority! He survived that, but he'll carry the scars until he dies.”_

Lizenne ground her teeth at this abuse. “It's her. I checked, and will allow the House medics to check as well. Khorex'Var will be beyond her reach by the end of the day if I have to dislocate her arm to do it. I've enough capacity in my ship, and friends with more, to take the entire Lineage away if they wish. There are better places for your kindred out where we are now, places where your children will not grow up bearing a distant ancestor's shame. Tzairona comes to take her children back from their keepers now, and I will not let that foul-tempered old woman stand in her way.”

There were tears in Unnok's eyes now, but not from sorrow. _“I will summon Her Ladyship instantly. Both Their Ladyships—our Matriarch must know of this. Please stand by.”_

“Thank you,” Lizenne said, and then gave him a smile. “Congratulations, by the way, on Elcia's upcoming clutch.”

He flashed them a grateful smile before the image switched to an “on hold” screen, a snapshot of one of the House's properties that showed a rather lovely lake surrounded by woodlands, backed by a distant mountain range.

“They didn't tell him?” Modhri murmured.

Lizenne shook her head. “He works too closely with Inzera, and you know that he's never been able to keep a secret, particularly not from someone he fears. That's why she chose him as her receptionist, you know.”

“That poor man,” Modhri whispered, “he looks so worn. I knew that this would happen if the Blades went after the production lines, but we had no choice. And Girosk... how could she do that to him? To shame him like that, for something that he had no way to stop! I'll bet that the Director of Security, whichever one of her lazy, conceited grandsons it was, never even got a scolding.”

Lizenne caught his hand in her own, stroking the clenched fingers until they relaxed. “My Great-Aunt always did favor her own descendants over all others, and she was sparing enough with her approval even for them. Speaking as the rebellious youngest grandniece with no real aetheric talent to speak of, I did not miss her in the slightest when I took my leave of House and home.”

Modhri snorted. “Never mind that if you had complied with her every whim, the Core Worlds might be embroiled in a bloody civil war right now.”

“Or dead in our entirety, if Zarkon had decided to put a stop to it, thereby warning the other Great Houses to mind their manners.” Lizenne gave his hand another pat and sighed. “The Fates lead us a strange dance, and all for the benefit of the Lions; benefiting the Lions benefits the rest of us, and beyond us, to benefit the known universe. Where will we all end up, I wonder?”

Modhri gripped her hand warmly, and gave her a naughty little smile. “I can't say. What I can do is hope that it lands us in a comfortable Lineage-House on Zampedri, surrounded by bright-eyed cubs and eager students. I seem to recall that you wanted seven daughters out of me, my love, and I am eager to comply.”

Lizenne opened her mouth to reply, but the screen switched abruptly back to the Matriarch's private office, where the harsh-faced visage of her great-aunt served to cool their ardor entirely. Unnok had vanished; probably dismissed for the sake of privacy, and visible off to one side was a shorter, thinner, careworn woman that Lizenne recognized as Modhri's mother. Lady Inzera Ghurap'Han had probably worked the previous Khorex'Var Matriarch into an early retirement, possibly into an early grave. The two women had not been on the best of terms when last she'd seen them, and Lizenne's great-aunt could be vindictive. Lady Ghurap'Han herself had aged more gracefully, although she had not softened a bit. While she still held onto an austere beauty, her expression was hard and unforgiving, her eyes still had the lethal pale-gold glare of a winter sun, and her voice might have been used to shave the bristles off of a nerebork. Lizenne began to remember why she had hated and, yes, feared this ferocious old dame when she was small. Well, she was no longer small, and no longer had to fear the old woman's wrath.

“ _What are you doing here, wretched child?”_ Her Ladyship snarled, _“You are dead to your House and your kin, and yet you sit there with another corpse at your side to remind me of your mother's failures. Your very existence is shameful, and if you had anything to do with the recent damage to the Shipyard--”_

“It's nice to see you too, Inzera,” Lizenne said pleasantly and without the slightest trace of contrition, something that never failed to make the evil-tempered old tyrant steam. “The damage to Nelargo's factories was not my doing, nor was it Modhri's, and the fact that my family provides and has been providing ships for Zarkon's little gang of bloody-handed murderers for generations turns my stomach. It's not you that I wanted to speak to, anyway, but Lady Khorex'Var. Greetings from beyond the social graveyard, Lelannis! Your magnificent son here has discovered Tzairona's corpse, and we've brought her home for you. I believe your Lineage and our Lineage had a deal concerning that.”

Lady Ghurap'Han gurgled in shock, but Lady Khorex'Var only smiled, an expression that took years off of her face. _“Why, yes, I believe that we did. A very important one. Do bring her down, please, I will have the House's hotpad made ready for you. I am most eager to receive my ancestress at last.”_

Lizenne stole a look at her great-aunt, who was going a dark, angry purple beneath her fur. “We also managed to find Jasca, her ship's AI, and she retained Tzairona's last message. Some friends of ours were able to bring her back online in a new ship, as cheerful and snarky a young lady as ever she was before. If you like, I'll bring a transmitter so that she can tell you all of the interesting details. It's quite a story.”

Modhri's mother grinned. _“I would like that very much. Please bring both along to my House's medical bay, so that—”_

“ _You will do no such thing!”_ Lady Ghurap'Han exploded. _“She and that impertinent boy of yours are dead, and traitors as well! I will not have anything to do with--”_

“ _Shut up for once, you horrible old_ knastic pha'ghranosh,” Lelannis snapped, shocking the older woman into speechlessness. _“You might have declared them officially dead, the better to pocket both her allowance and two-thirds of my son's pension, but_ I _did not. I may see whom I wish in my own House, and if the body they have brought us is authentic, then you have less than no right to order me about. Your office or mine, Lady?”_

“ _Mine,”_ Lady Ghurap'Han snarled, _“and if it is not authentic, then you will suffer for this.”_

Lelannis gave her an arch look. _“More than what I suffered when you waved the demise of my most promising son in my face? Even you could not do that, and I very much doubt that you'll have the opportunity to try. Come along, children! The Matriarch's private hotpad awaits you!”_

The connection cut off right there, and Lizenne frowned thoughtfully. “I'm not sure if that's wise. Inzera's own hotpad is right by the house, and there are guard towers...”

“All of which are staffed with Khorex'Var gunners,” Modhri said with a sly smirk. “Mother's predecessor never gave up hope that I might find Tzairona at last, having been given my own ship, and she made sure that when I came to deliver our freedom, I would be able to keep my own. Those guard towers aren't a popular posting, anyway; it's very dull to have to sit about and watch an empty pad most of the time. Too dull, perhaps, for the favored children of the dominant House.”

Lizenne laughed, and so did Jasca. _“That's right! Now get going, and take along the good transmitter, the one that Pidge made. I want to be there, standing right there in that room while I tell that_ bitra _to her face that I and my boys have got the Lineage's most valuable properties in our sights—the ones that they don't let those of the 'lesser House' work at. One wrong move and—_ ZAP! _That's it!”_

Modhri chuckled and cocked a sly glance at Jasca's fierce expression. “And now I know why your type of AI is no longer in production.”

She flashed him a level look. _“I loved Tzai and Zandrus as much as if they were my own siblings. I'm not going to let that vile old woman beat and bully their children again.”_

“Nor will we,” Lizenne promised, and headed for the shuttle bay.

Keith boosted his Lion hard to the right and slagged a string of fighters with a single wash of flame, then cleared out of the way so that Tchak's big cannons could punch a series of significant holes in the destroyer's engine deck. _Really big holes,_ he thought a minute later, watching the Galra ship go dark as its power core blew out. “Got an upgrade recently, Tchak?” he asked, dodging around a large asteroid.

“ _Yup!”_ Tchak replied cheerfully. _“Halidex, Walmanech, Elikonia, and a few other scenic spots got in some teams of Olkari and Beronite engineers recently, and they've been steadily overhauling the Coalition's Shipyards and fighting craft, no expenses spared. They know what's at stake right now, and they can't afford to cut corners.”_

Keith smiled wryly, remembering how every time someone wanted to upgrade anything bigger than a garden shed back on Earth, people started screaming bloody murder over the expense. “How many bean-counters blew their tops?”

“ _All of them.”_ Tchak's _Agent of Spare Change_ executed a stately barrel roll and erupted with a barrage of seeker pulses that shredded another squadron of drones. _“Small loss. It's all right, what we're bringing home more than makes up for it. There's good pickings on an Imperial warship if you know what to look for, and not having the best part of your gross planetary product stolen by greedy aliens does help. Tribute, my scaly ass.”_

Keith glanced down at the planet below. Helpfully, Red provided magnified images of the surface on a side screen, pointing out a number of large installations in the signature Galran purple. “And the bases are even better, right?”

Tchak cackled. _“They're part of why I'm here. Liberator gets a cut of the loot, boy, and don't argue! A lot of the Fleet Captains are in it for the money as well as honor or revenge, and that's understood and agreed on. Yantilee's a bastard at the bargaining table, but for all the right reasons.”_

“I wasn't complaining,” Keith replied, sending Red skimming over the sleek, contoured hull of the _Agent_ to keep another group of fighters from shooting out the pirate's drive. “Running a big ship isn't cheap, and your men'll want some cash to celebrate with, back at port.”

The _Agent's_ guns spoke again, and a light cruiser tumbled clumsily away, spewing flames from one flank. _“Aha! Logic! Keep it up, boy, that's rare in a hero. Tell the Princess that Tepechwa wants his homeworld to be liberated next—he's been talking with some of his old friends and neighbors, and they want in on the action. I'm all for it—nobody can sort salvage like a Hepplan.”_

“Save it for the next round of diplomatic talks, Tchak,” Allura's voice cut in sharply. “We've already taken some steps in that direction. That was the last of the present enemy, and I congratulate your gunners on their aim. Whose turn is it to gather up the survivors?”

“ _That'd be us, Miss,”_ Captain Lothi of the _Sine Purlin_ rumbled. _“Got plenty capacity for carrying 'em, and—whups! Better get to it. Black ship's already scattering pearls. Stand guard, Miss, if you would. Don't want no other surprises.”_

Keith glanced at his screens and tightened his grip on the control beams reflexively. The small, poisonously fast and agile Hoshinthra craft had cut a sizable swath of her own through the enemy forces, and now scores of tiny pale rounds were streaming out of her launch bays. Each one would be carrying a single Warrior, all bent on claiming their mother's due. Keith didn't like that, even though he knew that they'd be targeting only the worst of the Galran soldiers. The Warleaders had agreed to spare the officers for questioning, but that certain small but particularly violent percentage of the crews belonged to them. It was one of the few things that the Warleaders had been absolutely adamant about, and even Shiro's protests had been voted down by the Fleet Captains. Oddly, none of their Galra allies had objected to that demand. Keith had asked his mother why, and she had given him a reply that he could not dispute. _There have always been those who benefit the universe best by leaving it,_ she had told him solemnly, _and Zarkon has encouraged a glut of those in Galran society—the better to strengthen his armies. The Hoshinthra are eager to prune that number down to a reasonable level. I'm willing to let them weed out the Sendaks and Akazias of our people, my son. Remember how many of their own kind just those two have killed, along with hundreds, even thousands of those of other peoples... and very nearly you as well._

Keith remembered Sendak as he had seen him last, consumed with rage, fangs bared, both the natural and the electronic eyes blazing with hatred, and remembered the crushing force of the cyborg's huge metal hand. Akazia had been no better, having been magic and madness made flesh, who would have killed and killed and killed until something bigger or luckier had taken her down. Which was exactly what had happened, come to think of it. Still, the thought of Hoshinthra predation, even predation that would benefit the entire race in the long run, gave him chills.

_Instinct,_ the Lion whispered to him.

Keith nodded in grim acknowledgment. Nobody liked the idea of being devoured. “All right, fine. It'll give us some time to figure out who gets what base to clean out. How many are we going to have to deal with?”

“Not all that many, actually,” Pidge said, and a map popped up on another side screen. “The ratio of landmass to ocean is pretty small, and it looks like the Galra didn't bother with any of the islands... hmm. Nothing underwater, either. A lot of the land area is desert or close to it, and all but one of the big bases are situated near the mines. There are a bunch of smaller ones--”

“ _\--That shouldn't give us hardly any trouble at all,”_ Coran cut in pompously. _“We've just broadcasted a message to all the Galra installations, basically saying that if they didn't surrender immediately, we've got a Hoshinthra and aren't afraid to use her. A bit tactless, I'm afraid, but our esteemed colleague Dablinnit doesn't much like evil-overlord types. Can't blame him, he lost his whole homeworld to as corrupt a passel of_ terwiggets _as ever you could hope to drop into an active volcano. Now, if Alfor and his lads had had the Hoshinthra to call upon, back in the day--”_

“They probably would have forgotten the comm address as soon as possible,” Hunk said sternly. “I don't see Allura's dad telling them to go eat some guys. Zarkon, maybe, but Trigel would've hit him with a table again. Okay, so it's just the big bases?”

Keith smirked and leaned back in his seat, observing Captain Lothi's own fighter squadron rounding up escape pods. It was comforting to know that the other Paladins felt the same way he did, past and present. His mother's own sleek little ship was among them, helping to herd the blocky pods back toward the imposing bulk of the _Purlin,_ and he nudged Red into heading over there to lend a hand. Hunk was already there, the yellow Lion pushing along a pod whose thrusters had been blown out, and Lance, whose Lion was hauling another back in her mouth. Pidge and Allura were already hovering above what had been the command ship, ready to take action the moment that the Hoshinthra were finished.

“ _Those are the only really defensible structures, from the look of things,”_ Captain Grank-Phar told them; she'd parked her reconfigured asteroid miner, the amusingly-named _Stone Bore_ in a low orbit, the better to get a look at things down below. _“Pobolonians don't have so much as a violent scale on their hides, so the Galra didn't bother to build up here the way they usually do. All of those small outposts are basically overseer's cabins. The big bases are built tough, probably due to outside threats. Isn't that right, Tchak?”_

There was a rich chortle from the _Agent of Spare Change._ _“Yep, that's me. I couldn't drive the egg-crackers out of this solar system, but by the Pherolon of Gashtap, my lads and I could make sure that they didn't profit from being here. Up to a point, anyway. Most of those installations are refineries and depots, where they clean up and store the crystals, and they eventually had to strengthen their defenses to the point where I would have had to blast them from orbit to crack them, which would have pretty much destroyed everything around them. I never was able to get into the big one over there, right from the start—the one by that old volcano. Odd place for it, anyway. It's all volcanic rock in that area, with nothing worth mining.”_

Keith tapped a few controls, zeroing in on a round purple dot that humped up out of an old lava field like a huge, bloated tick. Something was strange about it—not the building itself, but the land around it. The volcano in question was an ancient, eroded old cinder cone, squatting on a sort of crease on the southeastern side of the supercontinent. The ocean had partially filled that depression, and Keith realized that he'd seen that sort of geographical feature before, in images of the Ethiopian desert back on Earth. Sometime in the next few tens of millions years or so, that chunk of the supercontinent would break off from the main mass to become a continent of its own. Unlike Africa's Afar Region, however, it got enough rain to grow a nice dense scrubland... except for a wide ring of bare rock around the base itself. Even the rock looked odd; instead of the sort of rusty black of the old cinder cone itself, the stone was a pale, dusty gray that made him uneasy just by looking at it. It smelled dead to his more arcane senses, even from all the way up here.

“Guys,” he said tensely, “I think that's a Quintessence-extraction plant. Kolivan told me about those, once. If you let them stay in operation for too long, they can kill everything on the planet, right down to the last microbe.”

He heard a hiss from Lance. “You're right. Oh, holy crow, look at that thing! It wasn't enough to steal the stone that kept the water running, was it?”

“ _No.”_ That was Trag, the large and taciturn Captain of the _Ephra'an's Desire. “Those are among the first installations that the Galra set up, if the planet has life but nothing more profitable to offer. Princess, let my demand be known: since I left my own homeworld, I have seen a third of the rainforests there die because of those things. Free my world.”_

“I so acknowledge,” Allura replied formally, although the words were snarled rather than spoken. “We'll handle that base--”

Keith felt a sudden, tingling surge in his blood, and there was a faint fuzziness at the corners of his eyes. Shiro was having a Vision, and a fairly powerful one from the feel of it. He reacted instinctively, sending energy back up through the Lion-bond to keep Shiro's blood free of toxins, and felt the others reacting in kind--: _purify/heal/empower/ramify/strengthen:--_ in a whirl of rainbow colors seen only by the inner eye. He felt the Lens turning, white fire blazing at the rim, and beheld the moment of shining clarity when the message came through. There was a feeling of titanic pressures, and an immense brittleness just waiting for a single brief shock in precisely the right place--

“ _Team, get down to that extraction plant, now!”_ Shiro barked hoarsely from the Castle's bridge. _“Right now! Its main siphon goes all the way down to the planet's mantle, and is right near a major magma chamber and numerous deep crystal lodes. Someone in that base is rigging it to blow—if it goes up, the entire crust will shatter like an eggshell!”_

“On it!” Keith shouted, and turned his Lion planetward, streaking forward as fast as he could go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I stared at the screen for a good ten minutes, trying to think of a clever ending note. I have failed. I hope you enjoyed today's chapter and will continue to send us wonderful encouragement. Thank you and have a good day!

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked us, please leave kudos and/or comments so that we can wrap ourselves in the love as we continue to build this universe. And if you hate us? Well, we're sorry for the baby Galra currently chewing your ankles off. Have a nice day! ^_~


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